The Marine shifted his weight from one boot to the other, rifle resting against the sandbag wall. Another hour of watch. Another stretch of nothing.

The locals were quiet tonight, too quiet, his corporal had said. The same corporal who always gave him the worst shifts. The same corporal who’d sneer when he caught him looking at an old holo of his wife and kids.

He missed them more than he’d ever admit. He’d tell himself he was doing this for them, keeping the peace, securing a foothold for the Corps on this “new world.” 10 light years from home. That’s what Command said, “A New World ripe for Colonists”, pity Command had not told the locals.

He gazed out at the city below the hilltop post. The streets were narrow, winding, lined with old stone buildings that caught the dim light of the sliver moon. It was a strange mix, alien geometry, best suited to their ugly bodies. This was his fourth “new world” and they fell into two types.

Shit-holes where everything tried to kill you, the sun, the air, the water, the local wildlife.
or populated ones like this one, where the aliens that lived there were none too happy to be taken over by beings from light years away. The sky was the colour of the smoke rising from a campfire beside the lake back home. For a moment, he could almost smell it.

Then came a sharp, electric pain at the base of his neck. He gasped, dropped his rifle, and fell to one knee. The shadows behind him rippled and from them emerged a figure. Shorter than him, wiry it was one of the locals.

The creature held a crude looking club narrow at the end he held and broad at the other.

It leaned close, voice rasping through the private’s helmet translator device that sputtered with static.

“Welcome to Belfast, ya slimy, tentacled, mingin’ wee eejit. Why not feck away back home?”

The Marine blinked, half in pain, half in confusion. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the smoky sky. The word echoed in his head. Belfast. Even their language was ugly. The files said this world was called something else, unpronounceable, alien, the best the translator could do was “Mud” . He tried to focus, to remember the briefing, but his ears were ringing.

The creature was already walking away, vanishing down a narrow street.

Past a sign, old and tattered half-buried in the rubbish,

ULSTER SAYS NO!

The Marine tried to sit up. The air tasted like rain and diesel. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, humans they were called, they could keep this shithole for themselves for all this marine cared.

He lay back down and let the truth settle over him like the cold.

Maybe this wasn’t a new world after all maybe it was just an old one with the same problems he was used too.