Our pick was simple: we could be shot fodder, or we could be … fodder. We could beam our forces to fisticuffs and expire (as exclusive humans can) against a acquisitive multitude that was literally intake on its interstellar conquests—or rest as we were—virtually weaponless and ordinal in distinction for brunch.
We chose to fight.
Thanks to outlander profession and trend guts, the Terrans on digit worlds fought the Posleen to a standstill. Thank God there was a time to grownup our breath, a moment, still brief, of peace—.
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Tags: Fiction