I remember Sgt. Molded. Bear of a man. Nerves of steel. I was part of his platoon guarding the strategic nectar dumps on the south patio. We had just fought off a wave of army ants and the men were weary from battle. That’s when we saw it: an HB-500 sweet-seeking hoverdrone heading straight for the central refueling port. The men were terrified. They scattered like children. All but Sarge. “Get back here, you dogs!” he barked as he grabbed his last grenade. “You wanna live forever?” Last thing I saw as I dove for cover was Sarge pulling the pin and leaping in the missile’s path. There was a bright flash. That’s all I remember.