We spent three days in the bunker, fully suited up with catheters installed to deal with the constant lings. But it was a necessary inconvenience. We could only warp out bodies as Hygieia cleared space on her end and did something she called ‘sliming the pot’, whatever that was I couldn’t find the bravery to ask so we operated on her timetable.


    Each day netted us a hundred biomass from the constant stream of lings and similar bioforms, a constant trickle our tremorsense soon discerned was provided by a pack of cloaked Azhurai scouts who funneled the organisms into our trench. Like cunning statues. Or assholes.


    We lacked the firepower to breack through the lings and hunt down the perpetrators so we didn’t. There wasn’t any point either. We appeared to be no threat to them, but our looted solarium reactors meant every day our ammo supplies increased and they were herding free biomass to me!


    Progress in other fields was slow, but it gave us time to manipulate the nanofactories and crack open more Technocracy crates. One of the slain technicians, the one whose suit Corporal now occupied, had been an engineer, not just a technician but a fully trained and educated and practically tested engineer. With codes for every piece of equipment in the bunker. Turning the days into a lootbox extravaganza as he plugged into each crate and cracked it open faster than SUDO. All told, we packed the Nanofactories and Alaea’s room full of every conceivable resource, stuffing it from floor to ceiling and carving out a throne for her to sit on as she played with her balls.


    Outside the bunker war raged, Azhurai scouts constantly chased spinolings to our trench, forcing us to expend ammo. Were it not for our tremorsense and recharging munitions we’d be overrun on the first day.


    Over the radio we pick up snippets of Tulverian’s fighting from their main bunker, hooting with gusto or terror; hard to tell with the iguanas.


    But those are tangents, each day I listen to Singularity communications, occasionally picking up distress calls or meaningless encouragement from Bazzhole. It all sounds good, like they’re winning, but I know Baz better than most, he’s desperate. Words slowly taking on a more Australian accent as he tries to keep the lies consistent.


    “Baz, just you wait. One of these days I’m going to finish killing the enemies in front of me, and turn around. Pray you are dead by then.” I whisper, turning my attention to Hygieia’s ship development plans.


    [324 / 2000 biomass for ship construction]


    Although, maybe I should call it ship growing plans. Hygieia’s shared the schematics as well as snippets of her own vision, revealing a cavernous tunnel where the ship’s superstructure will be grown using chitinous biosteel. An absolutely amazing form of construction if I can say so! Back in college this sort of biosteel would revolutionize every bridge and road in the world. Able to self repair with a little water and basic aspiration (breathing) we would never have to fill a pothole again.


    Which… Actually might crash the construction industry as a whole. Except, how much of the construction industry is left after our draft? How has Earth survived losing all men and women between ages 12 - 42? More than four billion people kidnapped in a second. I push those dark thoughts out of my mind in favor of the chitinous structure I’m officially shortening to biosteel! Earth’s time will come, later.


    Biosteel is here right now! It is amazing, simultaneously able to be grown slowly or rapidly depending on the amount of biomass available. In times of famine growth would slow, fungi would populate, increasing the surface area for carbon absorption and developing more complex cellular structures, while in times of plenty you could accelerate development time by dumping biomass at the ship. If we could somehow get Hygieia to South American rainforests then Earth could mass produce enough warships to break free of the Singularity’s hold.


    Enough raw biomass to build thousands of spinolings, maybe even millions, if only we could optimize the biological and technological aspects of their production. Mutarines will always be a tightly limited force, only suitable for engagements where they might make the difference between victory and defeat. Which got me experimenting with Nanofactory designs. One such experiment was now occupied by Specialist Barker.


    Who managed to talk us into providing heavy gauntlets complete with embedded blades and a solarium powered battleaxe. The stupid thing was little more than a rod at first glance, but when Barker turned it on, a halo of golden light articulated from one side of the handle to the opposite, possessing all the cutting power of a lightsaber, a factoid that many lings learned with their last second alive.


    My suit was swapped out for a much heavier version, with built in grenade launchers and armor nearly a foot thick, but most crucially, it had boob space. Finally! My tits could breathe! Fitting inside the suit comfortably, though we were really stretching the line between what a powered suit was and where battle mechs began. This was closer to a goliath than a marauder, though it’s function was explosive support and providing a shield generator to the squad, which we lack the necessary reactor components to build.


    “Shield blocked again! Damn, this is worse than Clem’s Ghost-fired EMPs! If only we had a real factory, I’d cook up a proper Thor and teleport that bitch to Earth, see how the Azhurai like high impact payloads!” I say aloud.


    “Yes yes, I’m sure that’ll teach em.” Said Emurine, adjusting the reaper jetpack.


    As the lightest mutarine, he’d get the most airtime from it and something about making an Emu fly was deeply satisfying to me. Maybe it was my way of telling the suit’s announcer to pound sand. Spiderman’s suit received few modifications, primarily tripling the heavy pulser’s magazine size and swapped the onboard reactors for two solarium powered models. Lower peak output, but higher sustained power, and a cable he could use to add suit power to his rifle a trade off we all agreed with after nearly being overrun. In lieu of a true machine gunner, we’ll use Spiderman’s endless reserves of firepower to level the field against superior numbers.


    Which left us with one remaining decision. I flexed the gauntlet loading two grenades, one a high explosive and the other an armor penetrating shaped charge. Then repeated the gesture with my other hand.


    “Locked and loaded, FINALLY! So, what’s the call sergeant? Who gets the cloak? I’d feel a whole lot better with a man-” I pause, uncertain how to address Wormface’s gender. Then I realize the whole squad calls him Sergeant Wormface. There is no possible insult I could utter that would phase him. “-ahem, a man I can trust.” The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Wormface shrugged. Displaying the second reason I wanted him as our infiltrator. He could mimic human gestures far better than anyone else in the squad, even the troopers with symbiotes inside them.


    “My vote is still Kerrigan. She displaces the least volume so the cloak will last longer on her and she’s stronger than the rest of us. A reactor and cloak won’t bog her down.”


    A loud raspberry blows Wormy, making my suit’s automated sensor suite (the ‘head’) pivot to face Kerrigan, despite me keeping eyes forward. I couldn’t help but grin. At least she waited until he finished speaking this time.


    “Not leaving Pfina!” Snapped Kerrigan, folding her arms over the strangest tank top I’d ever seen.


    We’d finally gotten her to wear clothes, but the only garments she deemed worthy were a gasmask -that she generally wore atop her head like a toque- and a sort of spandex singlet. Like a wrestling unitard with a scandalously low back and permanent wedgie. Although that was predominately due to her tail. No matter what we did nothing appeased that barbed whip, nor was there any answer other than to let it pierce whatever garment she wore except the low backed singlet.


    I considered having one of the nanofactories churn out a child’s onesie, the old style with buttoned up butt flap. Ya know, for her tail. But we needed the cycles. Emurine couldn’t turn into a proper reaper without extensive retrofitting which meant his old suit had to be disassembled, rebuilt, and reassembled, doubling the time it took to manufacture and he was only the prototype. Hygieia had already preserved his strain, whatever that meant, for future replication.


    Lookout you aussie cunts, I’ve got Emu-reapers. SUCK ON THAT BAZZHOLE!


    Wormface shook his head, “Boss, I’m the sergeant. A reserve synapse for Hygieia. I cannot be the one to cloak.”


    “Your value is exactly why I want you invisible. The best armor is literally being untargetable. But… I see your point.” I sighed. “We can’t cloak every marine, not with the number of reactors we have or our current designs. Hey, go grab that liar. The woman who was spouting off about having kids. Helen. Yeah, stick her in the cloak, and then send her to the Tulverians. Oh, uhm, how is she going to understand them?”


    “Symbiote will translate for her.” Responded Wormface, grabbing the infested trooper and sitting her down.


    A key part of what he failed to mention was that her current symbiote wasn’t going to do the translation. His helmet slid open and several of the enlarged symbiotes swam out of his face, thick serpents next to the pencil thin worm colony that comprised Wormface’ body. Helen’s helmet slid open, accepting the additional symbiotes with only a little slurping.


    “I’ll never be able to enjoy spaghetti again.” I whispered, looking away to avoid gagging.


    Right after I double checked my coms were turned off. They were, and I left Wormface to his, uhm… Body snatching.


    >Terran Thena: We’ve looted most of this bunker and walled it off. Collapsed part of the exterior trench too. Time to head out and negotiate an iguana alliance. Send some guards and builders to retain our supply depot. Lol.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hell, its about time!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you stopped getting shot


    >Terran Thena: Smartass.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: get shot less


    >Matriarch Hygieia: oh I have a pet project that could turn that bunker into a biopool


    >Matriarch Hygieia: shame to waste it


    >Terran Thena: It’s on a main trench network. I must be hundreds of miles away from you. And the Technocracy is right here…? Why turn this bunker into a standalone biopool?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: exactly!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: all the corpses you kill are right there!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you have everything I need


    >Matriarch Hygieia: and if someone drops another nuke there will be a redundant biopool


    >Matriarch Hygieia: and zazy boi is breathing down my neck over here trying to feed me biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: CREEPY CREEPER


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I cant develop new strains or replicate those marines without him getting curious


    >Terran Thena: My bunker is now your biological warfare lab. Cheers mate.


    Before the text fades from my eyes three creatures warp onto scanners, appearing only a few feet from me. One is a sort of lanky tiger with -I shit you not- diamonds sparkling all over it. Like a glass jewel somehow carved and polished into feline perfection. Mighty limbs prowl it towards the doorway, each step somehow causing the creature to blend in more with its surroundings. A camouflaged Predator.


    The other two creatures are equally strange. One must be twenty feet long, five feet thick, and 100% slug. At least twelve eye stalks sprout from the creature’s slimy log only to sink back into its undulating mass and re-emerge in another location. While the final creature is some sort of many limbed centipede-beetle. It’s thick and chitinous with segments like a beetle but longer. Dozens of limbs dig into the tunnel wall, excavating dirt at a pace that makes Barker stop and drool.


    Then the damn dog soldier starts hauling empty crates to the centi-beetle who diverts a few legfulls of dirt into the crates. Within a half hour there is a swimming pool sized cavern in the bunker’s hind and the slug sets to excreting itself all over the depression, walls, and even ceiling. Thick goop solidifies before my eyes creating a sealed chamber except for the entrance where Barker and Centi-beetle were already building a second defensive line. Thinner than our first and more of a double layered wall, as if it was only meant to conceal the future biopool than keep shrapnel out.


    Which was my cue to gtfo. I activate my general com link, connecting to everyone.


    “Alright marines. Saddle up and move out!”


    Two possessed troopers lead the way. Slipping through our barricade and marching single file down the trench. No lings are present, although many spines crunch beneath our feet. Insoluble remnants of the corpse field. Our most expendable forces take up the most vulnerable positions of lead and rear. Darkness swallows us, the perfect cover as we run up and out of the trenches. Heading for the next nearest bunker. Suits are dark, running in silenced operations. No electronics break the night. Made unnecessary by Hygieia’s hive mind and the link all creatures, except Kerrigan, seem to share.


    This dash is a well calculated gamble. Power armor lives up to its name and literally has fusion reactors spewing heat, anyone who is watching passive sensors will be able to pick up our signals and deploy intercepting forces. Or a missile. Maybe twelve.


    What I’m not expecting is the ground beginning to rumble. Infrared lasers swing towards us reflecting off faceplates and armor as pinpricks of blue energy begin to widen into orbs of furious plasma. Constellations of twin Juggernauts materialize on sensors. Advanced variants, with plasma cannons instead of the fickle autocannonry of kidnapped humanity. No, these plasma cannons are purpose built and tuned to individual Juggernaut reactors so their shots maximized every millinewton of power. So efficient they are often reserved to counter the monthly supply drop and punch holes in shielded warships.


    I’m not shielded.


    “Shit.”