Submitted for the May 2025 prompt: Many Minds

The landing craft hurtles through the atmosphere on its suicidal spiral toward the LZ. I white-knuckle the pulse rifle and share a nervous laugh with the rest of the platoon.

 

“Are you gods or men?” roars Sarge. The raw, ferocious energy of his words promises salvation. He struts the aisle between the rows of us. He tests seat straps and knocks his scarred knuckles against our helmets. “Keep these on at all times. The songs of Sangrivox can turn your brains into useless jelly.”

 

We’ve all heard the stories of men who lost their helmets in battle. Those who survived were found curled in fetal positions, blood dribbling out their ears. They sobbed and tried to kill themselves by swallowing their own fists.

 

The ship punches through the lower atmosphere and screams to a halt at the LZ. When the craft’s rear doors open, we’re greeted by greenish light courtesy of our night vision. We throw ourselves out of the opening and splash into the surf.

 

Noise-cancellation hisses comfortingly in my ears. On my display, a path of neon green footprints guides me across the beach, with red flashing markers indicating the presence of mines or other hidden traps just below the sand. The ground trembles with explosions.

 

Head low, I sprint toward a concrete bunker. Its twin guns spit out pulses of blue-green energy. The hatch opens and a serpentine thing with bioluminescent bat wings emerges. It scuttles toward me on arachnid joints, holding a dark circular object.

 

“Grenade!” flashes my display.

 

I fire, and the beast recoils, the grenade slipping from its spiny fingers. Miraculously, it falls inertly to the ground. Another alien slides out of the structure. I launch a rocket through the open doorway. The shockwave tosses me several feet backward, ripping the rifle from my hands. I land gasping in the sand.

 

As the lithe alien sweeps toward me, I crawl toward my rifle. I don’t make it. The Sangrivox lands on my back and claws at me. There is a tugging sensation as the creature pulls off my helmet.

 

I wince at the bright light around me. It isn’t night. It is the middle of the day.

 

This alien world is not as gray as I was led to believe. The rocks, grass, and sand shimmer in unfamiliar colors. Natural landmarks have been vaporized by our weaponry. Delicate crystalline structures melt under a barrage of pulse rifle strikes. Nearby, my platoon systematically kills and destroys everything.

 

Rolling over, I stare down the Sangrivox with its liquid mercury eyes. Its skin is comprised of iridescent, overlapping shields, reminiscent of a rainbow trout’s belly. Giant butterfly wings stretch behind its back, in a defensive position.

 

Near my feet, the projectile I thought was a grenade is really just a dark piece of fruit that has split open to reveal dozens of diamond seeds glittering from its red pulpy interior. Ignoring the ruined fruit, the Sangrivox floats over to its mate, whose midsection is an angry pucker of blackened flesh. Their svelte bodies intertwine as they open their mouths and sing in unison.

 

It isn’t music, at least not as we recognize it. There is no recognizable rhythm, melody, or harmony. It is the sound of water caressing stones in a stream, the beat of hummingbird wings, or the harmony of wind-tickled bamboo chimes.

 

The sounds materialize into scenes in my mind: a birth, hours spent swimming naked in the sea, dives into the shadowed, crushing depths to a long-forgotten cave, harvests ending in music, food, and song, a joining ceremony.

 

As the song slows, I realize that I’m crying. I can’t stop. I want to tell this magnificent being that I’m sorry we came to its world and destroyed it. I’m sorry that I killed its mate. I’m sorry that I brought all our insecurities, paranoia, and hate to this paradise.

 

“I told you to keep the helmet on,” says a voice behind me. “You didn’t need to see this.”

 

The aliens don’t seem to notice Sarge, whose helmet dangles from one hand. He turns his back on the enemy as if they pose absolutely no threat.

 

“Why are we doing this?” I ask.

 

Sarge kicks my rifle to me. “Pick up your gun. Put on your helmet. Finish the job.”

 

Their singing rises to a crescendo. Then there is only one voice. The notes come out more slowly, haltingly, until they eventually stop. A void opens in the pit of my stomach.

 

“This isn’t war. It’s genocide.”

 

Sarge casually aims his gun at my chest. “I gave you a direct order.”

 

“It’s immoral. We aren’t gods. We’re just men.”

 

His finger inches toward the trigger. “We’re weapons. Morality is above our pay grade.”

 

Behind Sarge, the dead alien dissolves into ash. The surviving Sangrivox’s eyes dull to a leaden color. It leaps upon my commander, and its spindly fingers lock around his throat. Sarge barely has time to register shock before his neck blackens.

 

His gun drops, useless, as he turns to dust.

 

The Sangrivox faces me. They may not have known war or conflict before we arrived, but we have taught them how to fight, and I killed its mate.

 

I sing, and it hesitates.

 

My melody is sketchy. The notes wobble and falter, but the words are my own. I sing about first love, failures, unexpected deaths, laughter among close friends, words shared in confidence, and kisses exchanged under a bridge.

 

The Sangrivox drifts to me and stretches out its fingers.

 

I sing about my daughter in her cradle, reaching for a mobile of stuffed giraffes and hippopotami swirling above her head, of infant giggles, of tiny fingers that I may never touch again. My song disintegrates into tears and blubbering.

 

I don’t want to die, but I deserve it.

 

I close my eyes, awaiting judgement.

 

When the Sangrivox places its hand on my forehead, I feel no heat, just the comforting, inquisitive touch of one who listens and understands.

 

Then my ears bleed.