In Space No-One Can Hear You Cry:
Chapter One

"Goddamn mother-fucking slags."

It's a prayer and a curse. It's a statement, a mission statement, which they all live by as they pop a pill, swallow some grog and dive into the murky depths of the all encompassing darkness which is their Fate. They are the lost generation without a home; fighting a war that has spanned centuries and knows no end although the civilian government, and the press, and every fucking superior you talk to seems to promise that the end is near. The end is always near. The end of you and not the war. The war never ends; it's a known secret that no one will ever tell you, at least not to your face unless they're some dumb motherfucker, green from inexperience, who doesn't know better. They'll learn soon enough though. They always do. That or they'll die, and then they'll have learnt the best way a man can.

These are the facts. These are the facts that Pacey Witter has known and lived by, and these are the facts that have allowed him to make it through twenty-two years of living death. It's his birthday today and society tells him he should celebrate…with cake and candles. He'd rather a handful of pills and bottle of scotch. But he's in a bar with frosted cake and three candles that drip red wax on the white of the frosting; the wax splatters in random, patterned disorder like blood.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to youuu…" the faces around him sing. The faces are familiar; something about the hollow emptiness in their eyes reminiscent of space. He's been looking at eternal darkness for all his life, and he is eternal darkness. They all are which is why their eyes are space without the twinkling of stars, moons, suns or planets. But the faces are also those of comrades, men who've fought side by side with him. And they're singing 'happy birthday' to him in some fucked up tradition that has somehow managed to survive Time. It makes Pacey smile.

"Blow out the candles, Witter!" one of the men encourage. "And make a wish."

A wish. I wish I was dead. No, I wish I was never born. No, I wish Doug was still alive. And with that Pacey blows out the candles.

Doug is Pacey's older brother. Doug is the son destined for greatness, but died too early much to his father's chagrin. Now Pacey has the burden of carrying Doug wherever he goes. He feels Doug's arms wrapped around his neck every time his finger squeezes a trigger and he blows a slag away. It's Doug's weight that makes Pacey slow and sluggish as they wade through the swamp of a planet, marching to a new base and on the lookout for the enemy. And it's his brother's voice Pacey hears in his head, always. It is a relentless, unconscionable voice which he cannot banish.

"Goddamn mother-fucking slags!" one of the men, Chris Wolfe, swears loudly. "Who let that shit in?"

They all turn and see Michael Guerin sitting at table by himself, drinking water. Michael Guerin is a slag but a slag on their side. In other words he's an alien. There are several aliens in the army but they're in the minority, and they're hated. You can't trust a slag because it's been ingrained in you even before you were born. Even if they're on your side. And even, perhaps especially, when they have a reputation like Guerin's. Guerin is a crazy, fucking bastard. There are tales of a section of slags brutally slaughtered at the hands of this one man, no, alien. A bunch of dismembered bodies that attracted the Press Corps after military personnel okayed the site. 'One hundred and twenty kills', the headlines read. 'No casualties.'

Guerin's a military PR's wet dream. He has that dark, handsome, rebel-without-a-cause look that would make him gold, only he's a slag. And with one hundred and twenty kills and no casualties - not even a fucking scratch - it makes you wonder about the type of individual capable of inflicting such harm. It makes you wonder about the type of slag who could do that to his own kind. And if he could do that to his kind, what would he do to you if he had a chance?

"Goddamn mother-fucking slags!" Wolfe is off his head tonight. He's a firm believer that drugs and alcohol do mix; they all are. They give Wolfe the kind of courage that gets you killed, which is why he's standing in front of Guerin making all kinds of threats, "We don't want your kind here."

They watch Guerin calmly raise his eyebrows and ask too casually, "My kind?" It's his air of nonchalance that is disturbing. It snaps most of the men out of their stupor but not Wolfe.

"Yeah. Your kind. Slags." Wolfe tries to look menacing and tough but he only manages to look like a bloody kid.

"Y'know, you remind me of friend of mine. Max Evans," Guerin comments lightly.

There's an in-drawing of breath as the room stills. Michael Guerin has only one kind of friends…other slags.

"You little shit!" Wolfe narrows his eyes, lucid enough to get that insult. And before anyone can stop him, he lunges at Guerin. But Guerin is too quick and in a flash of motion he has Wolfe by the throat.

"Okay, break it up now." A voice of authority intervenes, saving Wolfe's life. The voice belongs to a young Captain, only twenty-years old. Although they're all young in this war…but old too. His name is Tristan DuGrey and daddy has earned him rank. Not to say that DuGrey isn't good. He was born and molded to be good. He has the respect, the talent and the connections to make it. And he will. If. If the war doesn't get to him first.

"Whatever you say, sir." Guerin drawls and releases the choking Wolfe who scurries back to the safety of his table.

"Thank you," DuGrey says and surprise momentarily flickers through both his and Guerin's eyes. Neither of them expected the 'thanks'. For a moment time seems to stand still like some gigantic leap for human and alien kind has been made, but really it's only probably a lapse on DuGrey's part. Then DuGrey turns stiffly and sharply, military style, and heads back to the table of birthday revelers.

The tension in the room decreases considerably with everyone back in their respective corners.

"Bloody bastard. Goddamn slag." Wolfe takes to cursing to all those who will listen while shooting nervous glances in Guerin's direction.

"So what ya wish for, Witter?" one of his comrades bellows.

"A nice damn cunt to bury yerself in?" another one leers.

Pacey smiles. This is his life. Twenty-two years of age. Happy fucking birthday.

*****

The eyes are brown. In certain lights, maybe hazel if you're being poetic. Sometimes they border on black. But really they are brown. He tries to see the soul in the eyes. He sees nothing. Nothing but brown eyes that continuously change color. He wonders if that is the statement on the soul, his soul.

Every morning and every night he stares at himself in the mirror. It's almost ritualistic by now. He looks in the mirror and sees scruffy brown hair, two pairs of eyes, a nose, a mouth, two ears and a head. There are two hands with eight fingers and two thumbs in total, a pair of legs and two feet with ten toes. He catalogues his bodily appendages and examines his body for any defect or any signs of difference but he sees none. Every morning and every night in the mirror Michael Guerin sees a human.

But he isn't a human. He's an alien. A slag as l'il fuckers like Wolfe remind him every single day. But Michael's not one of the slags that he blasts to oblivion day in and day out for a living. He's different. 'I am different,' Michael tells himself. And there is another list of why he is different. He looks like a human. He is part human. He fights for the humans. He's fighting for good and not for evil. And yet, it's an arbitrary line between good and evil. Only history, rewritten, will tell who was right and who was wrong, and that will all depend on who wins the war. Which is why they have to win the war. Because they can't be the losers. They can't be the bad guys. It's all part of the bullshit the army feeds them on; it's their staple more than bread and water. And l'il fuckers like Wolfe eat the horse shit up. But not Michael. He's fighting this war for himself, and that is what really makes him different.

Michael is a maverick. But he's more than that too. He's kamikaze. Suicidal. Michael Guerin has been labeled with a death wish by the doctors. It might be true. Death would be preferable to this living hell. But he's not really suicidal. Maybe he jumps in a little quickly, gets into battles and skirmishes where the odds are stacked against you. However, the odds are not stacked against Michael; he has a loaded die. Only the good die young and he's far from good. Mortality has shunned him. He'll live forever, killing and killing.

Maybe that's why his eyes change color, why he can't see his soul. It was the first casualty of this war. He'd like to grieve over it but there's nothing in Michael that will let him.

Sometimes Michael wishes for friends. Like that Pacey Witter guy who lacks none. The Pacey guy who had half the bloody army singing 'happy birthday' to him. Michael's never had a birthday party. Although when he was six there was a queenly blonde-haired girl and a serious, brown-haired boy who wished him the best on his birthday. Michael remembers Max Evans and Isabel Evans. They were like him, and for that brief second in time he hadn't been alone. They are gone now. And he is alone. He doesn't know what has happened to them. The government separated them, afraid of alien conspiracies and betrayal. Although the government wasn't so afraid to use them, to use Michael. He's been in the army for as long as he can remember. Anything before that is non-existent. Michael's life begins and ends with the army. He is a solider. He is a legitimized killing machine. And he has no friends. Only enemies.

He thinks he doesn't mind his life because it's really not that bad. It could be worse. Of course it could be better. But Michael has never known anything better. Not really. He wonders if the humans ever see anything from his point of view. Michael wonders, as he looks into the eyes of the aliens, just before he squeezes the life out of them, whether they ever see anything from his point of view. No one ever seems to see anything from his point of view. Except. Except maybe Captain Tristan DuGrey.

It was strange, the thank you, because it wasn't necessary and it sure as hell wasn't expected. But it was said. Michael thinks he saw a brief flicker of comradeship in DuGrey's blue eyes. He thinks he saw something akin to understanding. But that can't be right. It can't. The thank you unnerves him. And the look in his captain's eyes: full of humanity and soul.

Is that what they're fighting the war for? Is that what they're protecting? And if so, how long before the war destroys the soul and humanity in DuGrey's eyes? How long until the blue looks as dead as his brown?

Michael Guerin looks into the mirror every morning and every night and sees a reflection that is more alive than him.

*****

My name is Tristan DuGrey.

My name is Tristan DuGrey.

My name is Tristan DuGrey.

My name is Tristan DuGrey.

My name is Tristan DuGrey.

My name is Tristan DuGrey.

He repeats this to himself like a reminder, like a mantra, and like a prayer. Each sentence with a different inflection and a different emphasis takes on an entirely new meaning. There are various versions of Tristan DuGrey and everyone has their own definition of him. Except Tristan. Tristan doesn't know who he is.

What Tristan does know is that he was conceived as a war baby. He is a product of the war just as much as he is a product of his mother and father. He's not sure which one is the worse parent. But he lives and he will die for both. He will marry and produce children as an offering to the war. He will sacrifice himself and others because the war and its commanders demand it. There is no such thing as love or god (in this war), only the demands of the omnipotent higher ups but he wants to believe. He even has the poster from the 1990s cult-hit television series, The X-Files, with a UFO hovering over some woods and the words boldly written in white: 'I Want to Believe.' Fucking ironic.

The war has spanned generations and knows no end. It began some time between the years 2070 to 2090; there is still discrepancy and controversy over the exact date. It is now, however, the year 3225. Most of the science fiction shows of long ago have in some way or the other come into realization. Yes, there are aliens. Yes, there is space travel. Yes, there is galactic colonization. And Earth is a planet that most people still call home although they've never even been a solar system near it. Tristan, as a DuGrey, has had the privilege though and honestly Earth isn't much to write about. He's seen and lived in prettier planets. But they still call Earth home. It has something to do with remembering your roots; remembering where you came from and who you are.

Tristan remembers his childhood. He remembers hanging with the guys. They'd skip class and huddle as a group in the toilets sharing a flask of cheap liquor, letting the alcohol burn their throats and warm their bellies, whilst blowing puffs of smoke in the eyes of some loser who was taking a piss. He recollects the girls: their eyes, their hair, their hands, their shapes and bodies, the way they moved, the way they smiled and flirted and acted all coy. There were different types of girls, some were prim and proper like Paris Gellar and others were easy like Louise Grant and Madeline…Madeline something. Tristan can't recall Madeline's surname but he can easily evoke in his mind the feel of her pouty red lips. Just as the silky sensation of Summer's legs wrapped around his waist can effortlessly spring to mind. He had thought himself to be a man back then, but really he was only a boy. Now at twenty and having served two years in the army Tristan has aged. He hears his bones creak, albeit imaginary or real, whenever he moves. His blonde hair seems lighter than before because white strands hide in between the yellow. There are bags under his eyes and he sees in the mirror faint beginnings of lines and creases; his face is changing into a perpetual frown.

He's frowning now for on his desk there are a bunch of orders that came this morning. All of their company will be moving to the northeast of the planet Talerin tomorrow, one of the main battlefields. There are a few exceptions though. Lieutenant Witter is on leave, given that it was his birthday yesterday. Witter will have two weeks off before he's called to the front. He hopes that the lieutenant will make the most of his two weeks because, from all the accounts that have filtered down through the unofficial channels, things in Talerin aren't pretty. Not that anything about this war can be considered pretty. Tristan's not going either. Apparently his presence has been requested at the Orwellian base. He's not sure if he's happy about that or not. And he's not sure why his presence has been requested. Briefly, Tristan wonders what it'll be about but then stops the wasteful exercise, he'll find out soon enough. Surprisingly Wolfe and Guerin have been pulled as well. It seems like some of the higher ups have gotten wind of their little run in - the latest in a series of fights - and have decided that enough is enough. Tristan has been trying to contain the situation but Wolfe's a relentless asshole who doesn't know when to let go. And Guerin provoked…well, that's better left unsaid. He admires Guerin though, as much as he regards Wolfe with disdain. It's the general sentiment felt by all but Wolfe's a human and Guerin's an alien. Anyway, they'll be heading out to the Orwellian base with Tristan. Probably for a quick slap on the wrists before they too are shipped out to Talerin.

There's a knock on the door. And it's time to tell the troops that their destiny awaits them.