Finally is the item of the show, why we’re here, our rifle. The XM-10 comes in at three and half kilos unloaded. Overall, you won’t be surprised that you’re carrying around on minimum sixty-four kilos, one hundred-forty fucking pounds, into battle. But then, you are surprised, not because that’s heavy, but because that’s all you’re carrying into battle, into death. That this is all your life equals to in physical terms. Just one hundred-forty pounds. You are only worth one hundred-forty pounds because that is all you need to bring in order to do your job. That house, hundreds of tons, that car, nearly a ton, all the shit in your house and car, thousands of pounds, isn’t necessary, isn’t you. Because really, you only need a little over a hundred to make it by. Your life can be condensed into something that small. One hundred pounds. Reminding you how finite you are, and how infinite war, who has swallowed countless hundred pound lives, is.
VIII
While we hobble through the hallways to the carriers I grip the only familiar shoulder of the person before me, Isaac, now my closest friend—brother really—here on the other side of our galaxy. He looks back at me with a smirk, “Looks like our cruise is over.”
My last day on Earth.
Just like that, we are marching out of Parris Island base towards the fields and loading docks of the American Space Fleet. Endless circles of fences and loading depots surround white cylinder tops sticking a few meters above ground. These are the transport shuttles we will take to meet the real force of the fleet: gigantic battleships constructed in separate parts on Earth, then brought up to space to be assembled—their mass too big to launch them from the planet or for them to land down wholly. Medium sized frigates leave behind huge white clouds as they enter the atmosphere above us. Being Marines we lead the land forces to board the shuttles. As the first to fight, we’re the first to lead the formation.
We are organized into brigades and tight squares of hundreds of men. Armored vehicles and tanks trek by our marching gaps onto loading ramps. Helicopters and harriers pass overhead to their landing docks on the sides of bigger spacecraft carries, all poised at the sky for takeoff. Large bleacher seats parallel us marching filled with reporters, visitors, and senior officials and other Party agents. Next to them are the saturated seats full of families and loved ones, waiving and shouting off to us.
Is my family here? I’ve fucked up badly with them. All the wasted time I could have spent with my younger brother, Creon. The hope my parents had for me to have a better life before the draft. Don’t cry, you’re a marine now. I feel the warm tears on my face. I’ve been selfish these past weeks about my situation. I have failed to write or communicate with them at all. What a wretched man I am. The last time I talked to Creon was when I was yelling at father about being drafted. I am so fucking low. He must be just as hurt too, and now, I may never see him again.
This is how I leave earth.
My family.
My life.
Onto starships that will take us solarside.
I wasn’t the brother I should have been. I have already lost part of the Peter I was before the draft. I have hidden from the ones I loved as if it was their fault.
More tears on my face. More regrets on my mind.
Sergeant Blake leads our unit pass the bleachers. Following him is Corporal Kaiden, and the rest of us privates in the unit: Vance, Alex, Rommel, Tommy, Isaac, I, Julian, Jonathon, Vick, and our LMG carrier Ray. These are the only faces I have known since my life changed. Faces drafted from all over the eastern side of the United Sates into one army. The faces I will rely on in battle, and probably die with.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Julian, his expression reassuring. I never realized how old he actually was, he must be in his thirties—a father? “I’m leaving a lot behind too, my wife and little daughter.” So he confirms my suspicions. A forming tear glistens in his eye. He blinks and it’s gone.
“Do you think we will ever come back?” I say.
Determination forms in his face. “I have to, my family and life is here.” But his strength seems artificial. A levee holding back his real emotions just like the rest of us are.
Vance lightly punches me. “Guys, don’t be so gloom and doom. It’s starting to make me feel too.” His smile radiates at us, soft and sad. Tommy, who is by his side, looks down too, despite him and Rommel being the most rhetoric about being excited and proud to serve.
Regardless of our opinions on this war we are all hit by the consequences. Isolation from the ones we love, fear of dying, and now, fear of never seeing Earth or our families again. All of us think about war. Not the war in the movies or videogames that raised us as children. Or the wars we read about in history books. But a war that will kill many of us. A war that is now real to us. Most of the men in my unit have never even traveled outside of America like me, let alone their own state. Now, we are being sent to a whole other world to die for a people we don’t even know. And what will it be like at home when we come back? How alien will Earth be to us, just like this planet we embark on is, once we return?
The progression to the carriers continues. The crowds of families scream and yell as we pass them. Signs are held with texts of love and quotes from famous people. Flowers are thrown at us; red, white, and blue roses. A loud commotion breaks out as new signs rise out of the crowd by the security fence: Keep our sons on Earth! Where was Congressional approval? USA, how many children will send away today?
The security fence breaks down as protesters scream at marines to run. A few actually do. The Military Police and Party Reps rush in with batons raised and began beating the instigators. The runaways are shot with rubber rounds till their bodies collapse against the ground. Vehicles advance upon the scene blocking off the protesters and deporting others, most of them bloody and crying. Remaining media reporters are herded away by the rest of the MP’s.
The formations of marines continue to the carriers as if nothing happened. Supporters and torn apart families continue their words of hope and inspirations to us. I spot my father and mother standing with my crying brother to their side. I look down at my marching boots. I failed. I failed my role as a big brother and as a son to my dad. I look up one last time. They are still searching the crowd for me, but the endless march of marines and blue helmets, stuffed backpacks, supply sacks, and raised gun barrels pointing to the sky block their vision of me—oh my god, I won’t ever see them again. “Dad! Mom! Creon! Over here! I love you!”
Nothing.
The noise of everything else drowns me out, they stand there still searching.
This was my last chance to say goodbye.
The last time I would have made eye contact with them till I come back—if I come back. That eye contact, the visionary connection that would explain it all. How much I love and miss them. How scared I am. How terribly alone I am entering that ship. That I don’t want to die.
But it’s too late.
Nothing.
“It’s okay,” says Julian, strengthening his grasp on my shoulder. “You can mail them, that’s what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, I didn’t even see my family,” says Ray with sadness, “or girl,” with worry.
“It’s probably easier that way,” says Isaac. “It will be worth it when they see us coming back home.”
“I hope so,” says Tommy.
We all do.
“It will, we just gotta worry about surviving, not trying to say our last goodbyes. Don’t think like that.” If only I didn’t know him earlier, I wouldn’t know he was just saying this to try and make us feel better. That he didn’t believe his own words.