A forest of crystal pods hummed with sterile light, tinted golden by the aura leaking from Athena''s triplicates. Twenty-one humans stood in a circle, modesty parkas firmly covering their psionically gifted bodies. Nineteen pairs of eyes dark with malice, staring at the buffoon who kidnapped them. Unmoved by his earlier sales pitch.
Jim checked his datapad. Four minutes left on the privacy lockout. Recruited or not this had to end.
He cleared his throat, then ran pinched fingers along the lapel of his uniform, sharpening their edges to a formal crispness. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the choice is yours. Out of four billion people, you twenty were chosen for something extraordinary. I understand your hesitation, so please, allow me to sweeten the deal. For each one of you who accepts, ten thousand Earthlings will be shifted to non combat roles, your families and any relations shall be redirected to farmers, pilots, engineers, and the like, all very important positions, though none come with the prize of immortality. That gift can only be offered to psychics like yourselves. Should you voluntarily enlist in the bioweapons program, then I can promise you a life of luxury where every need, physical or emotional, is met."
"What are you going to do? Grind us up and spray our corpses over a dead world so our genes live on forever in some plant?" Baz snapped, hands balling into fists. Neck veins bulging as they made his octopus tattoo swell.
Before Jim could answer him, Richard stepped between the two men. His broad shoulders broaching no discussion.
"Baz, we quit playing poker when I became an ESP-er." Richard said, tapping his temple. "You know what I can do. Thanks to Athena F." He waved a hand at the woman who probably wasn''t human anymore. "I got some one on one time with this jackass. He ain''t lying."
"Counting cards isn''t the same as reading minds Dick." Baz snapped, punctuating each word with a shake of his head. "He''s our kidnapper. Why shouldn''t we kill him and take control of the ship?"
Murmurs of agreement echoed through the men, six of them taking a few steps towards Jim. Until Felicia intervened. Their covering parkas froze solid, locking all bystanders in place. Modest coverings now turned to imprisoning chains, binding men and women alike.
"This isn''t earth, we are not fighting on even footing Baz, trust me, I hate this bullshit. But our choice is accept and become immortal warriors, or refuse and become cannon fodder. Jim''s seen the bioweapons, absolutely terrible name for what they are, it''s more like using our esper talents to liaise with a- uhm- not sure what to call it, a Siegeclad? A gundam maybe? Larger than a human but not by much, heavy armor like a knight with energy shields and enough firepower to make an armored division feel like ladybug-chodes. We won''t be in any danger, especially if we form squads and sync up our abilities."
Ashley looked around, trying to read the room,
Jim checked the datapad, two minutes left. "I''m sorry, but we are out of time. I need yes or no answers. Regardless of answer you will be returned to the cryotubes."
"I''m in. We both know I''m a match for the Siegeclad, so give me that role." Richard answered, his words cutting through the seconds.
"You can''t just demand command positions! That''s not how enlistment works." Jim snapped.
"I just wanted you to think about it." A victorious grin spread across Richard''s face. "Who else has the affinity for empathy, military experience, and the desire? You know what is required to use the Siegeclad, and we both know that''s a valley of death I''ve already passed through."
Baz raised an eye. Richard never spoke about his deployments, nor was he one for bluffing, that''s why Dick was always invited to poker night. Easy money. Right up until he learned how to use his esper talent called every single bluff.
Skepticism filled them all, including Jim. But the request was logical, and well within his purview. Two taps on the datapad confirmed Richard''s military service, both on the front lines and as a CIA asset, and most surprisingly how he had refused a promotion to Colonel, opting to remain at his current rank and station. Closer to his aging grandparents.
"Always hated negotiating with empaths, it''s always a one sided conversation. You''ve got a deal, General Richard Ziusudra."
Suddenly the tubes shook with twenty people begging for promotions, all twenty apes -male and female- panhandling for a chance at position or rank. Felicia logged each request, downgrading them into the various available positions automatically.
"It''s been a pleasure doing business." Jim said, saluting them all in Singularity fashion with one arm raised. Silencing the crowd, this time with negative shock.
"Ah hell, I knew that uniform was too crisp." Richard muttered, eyes shifting to the glowing figure of three Athenas. "After they wipe our memories I''m counting on you to show us the way home." He whispered.
Twenty soft flashes later, the espers were back in their pods, asleep, with neural jacks plugged into their spines.
>Mind wipe in process.
>Mind wipe complete.
>Flashtraining commencing…
---
Jim swallowed, completing his underhanded work with a meager fifteen seconds to spare. "Thank the Singularity!" He whispered, retrieving the second datapad to see which buyers were winning the special grade merchandise auctions.
An eleven digit name stopped his heart. Winning the backroom auction with a bid of a single galactic credit. Not because it was a more valuable offer, for there were entire star systems listed, but because the name.
Exec Kaalra.
"Him? Of all the -nameless- why HIM?!" Jim gasped, collapsing against the nearest wall.
Slumping to the floor as his body convulsed in terror. Jim choked, remembering the one scrap of intelligence his father had ever shown. If a -nameless- asks for something you served it up on a golden platter and thanked them for the honor. Supposedly they were the second species to evolve in the galaxy and borrowed heavily from the firstborn''s protochronian technology for their initial elevation to space.
When the -nameless- caste appeared, you gave them what they wanted. No questions. No hesitation. Or else.
The Xealaxians had learned that lesson the hard way. After their homeworld was swallowed by a supernova, the surviving mantises sought refuge beyond the gate network, settling in a system where abandoned protochronian Dyson rings orbited a stable star. The rings colossal constructs representing the mass of dozens of solar systems—had lain untouched for eons. But the -nameless- coveted them.
Their demand was simple: Leave.
One race, the Xealaxians, decided to test that galactic law after their homeworld was swallowed by a supernova, driving the remaining Mantises to seek out worlds disconnected from the gate system, eventually colonizing a star system where a number of protochronian dyson rings had been found. Structures so large they represented the mass of a hundred worlds, each spinning in a steady orbit around an unusually stable star. Yet the -nameless- coveted the untainted protochronian archaology on those rings.
Their demand was simple: Leave.
For the Xealaxians, it wasn’t that simple. They had sacrificed entire fleets, converting colony ships into habitations, spent generations traveling at sublight speeds to claim those rings as their new home. They had deliberately left the gate network to seek a sanctuary, only for a wayward Arkship to discover their last hope and crush it under the presence of an intergalactic super gate. Forever connecting the galaxy to their last system.
Upon their refusal the -nameless- response was immediate. All Xealaxian stargates -the few colonies outside the dyson rings- were blacklisted, cutting them off from the galaxy at large. Ten months later their star gates reactivated, but not a single Xealaxian could be found, not hide, nor hair, nor desiccated exoskeletons. As if they''d vanished from the universe, wiped from existence by the -nameless-, who denied having any interactions with the ''rebellious'' race.
As if anyone bought that lie. Lesson learned, don''t test the -nameless- ever. An unsurprising fact given their status as the eldest race and undisputed masters of the galaxy. So advanced they even held territory in nearby galaxies, with a few of their pet races able to conduct trade between the galaxies via six specialized warp gates, small like the planetary style, yet deep and made by the -nameless- themselves, not loaned out Arkships.
Kaalra had been the fleet commander who ''reconnected'' the Xealaxians with the galaxy. A man performed his duty.
Jim broke down in tears. Mourning the loss of credits as he accepted Kaalra''s offer and sent the lone copy of Athena''s brainscans. Whichever third he wanted was his.
The reply was instant. picking out the third with -nameless- DNA, and then paying for the second variation (with Collective DNA) to be delivered to their local Fleetmind. Jim bit his tongue, tears pricking his eyes as he accepted the new auction request, opening it exclusively for Kaalra''s benefit. If he wanted her, then he take all three. A damn shame, but getting robbed was better than dying.
The response was immediate and decisive, with the number of zeroes exceeding the eleven digits of Exec Kaalra''s name. A sum that sent Jim''s wet eyes bugging out of his skull.
"Guess Kaalra is an alright guy." Jim gasped.
---
-Athena-
My new life flashed before my eyes, from age four to age fourteen we were trained. Guns, gasmasks, and armor becoming our second skin. More attached to our hands than smartphones. Weapons instruction, a decade of twenty mile hikes that ended in live fire drills, constant wargames, simunition battles that ended when one side was battered into unconsciousness. Like a game of paintball in the arctic, where each paint ball froze rock solid, turning it into a less lethal mallet. From archaic C1 canister rifles, to the next generation of smart-beam technology in the C92 Lightning Rifle I learned them all. Every type of human munition. How to dig a foxhole under fire; and keep my socks dry on a world whose air could not be inhaled without filtration. In short, how to fight a trench war of attrition. With and without live artillery support.
Accidents took their toll, many lost the will to fight and were euthanized by our veteran instructors, so many of whom were missing limbs after repeated tours on the frontlines. Reduced to trainers after being deemed ''unfit for service'', keeping the old adage of ''those who cannot do, teach'' true. Their personal failings becoming our whip, the implement upon which we broke or were hardened into weapons.
All told, we started with a thousand of recruits, each an archetype of the twelve primary clones; and by the end one hundred and forty four of us remained. Coincidentally making twelve squads of twelve. Veterans of war before we ever set foot on the battlefield. I knew it was all a dream, a product of the cryotube’s flashtraining. But I was no longer the pilot of my own body. It moved and obeyed the whims of clone archetype eleven, Sable Yurten.
My new identity.
I am Sable Yurten, elite conscript of the Holy Singularity.
Our body is teleported once more, from one cryotube to another, with the only change being the cryogel''s taste, identical yet not. Similar to how ice cream tastes differently when melted versus frozen, a temperature delta that comes with a gustal variation.
My elbows bounced off the pod walls, tight, almost claustrophobic. A far cry from the roomy pools of Felicia''s Arkship, a theme I saw continued throughout the room, narrow, long, and thin, lined with silent tubes. The cryotubes here are identical, aligned hexagonal formation around a central catwalk. One end always pointing towards the center. tube with four walls occupied by densely arrayed pods. Human beings, nude, and alternating male with female fill the pods, asleep.
Lights dance across their eyes, the final step of those who require additional flashtraining. Officers, engineers, tank drivers, medics, and everything else a well rounded army might require. Yet, Sable Yurten is no specialist, she has no need for Ranger School or infiltration specialty. For Sable Yurten is fodder, labeled as useless by the AI.
Thanks a lot, asshole. As if I haven''t had a bad few days. I think, blinking with silver lashed eyes. Odd, all hair was dissolved in the previous cryotube, so why do I have eyelashes? I reach up to touch them and find a full head of hair, wavy tendrils extending in every direction. In desperate need of a hair tie. My forearm brushes past my chest, past something hot and smooth. Like an oversized golden necklass, sans chain, with an enormous ruby on display. Far more gaudy than my wildest nightmares. There was a time and place for showing off cleavage, like the beach! Not here.
[-10 energy] [ 90 / 100 ]
"The hell?" I gurgled, words sounding more similar to fish bubbles.
Before I had time to think the gaudy jewelry sank into my chest, leaving unblemished skin behind, as if had never been. Furthermore the ''energy'', whatever that was, dipped then began to rise as if naturally recharging. The bar was not actually visible, yet permanently present, as if counting sheep within your head. I could picture it, and always knew what the value was, but there was no obstruction of vision like a Heads Up Display would normally cause.
Most importantly, the energy generation was crazy fast, one percent a second. If only the Spear of Adun recharged like that! Every Starcraft mission would have been a waterfall of purification beams and solar lances! So devastating that one probe would ROFLstomp the grandest of hybrids.
Yet I have no options, only a single ''Augur'', currently on cooldown. Confusion lingers, my mind unwilling to contemplate what this meant and turning outward, back to the world of reason and logic. Back to the cryotube hive.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Everyone else is out cold, hairless, silent, motionless, with only the cryopod''s external computer to indicate life. Once again I am singled out, without Richard to keep me company. Had he been flashtrained as well? Those around me seem to be settling into flashtrained skins, becoming their false identity. Sable Yurten sleeps alongside them, my alter-identity meditating on how to win a war, how to kill, for she has performed the act many times.
Her presence dreams within my mind, picturing a life spent beneath the dirt, cowering from artillery in bunkers filled with ammunition. Like your fifth marine, the one you forgot existed after loading them in a bunker. Useful, yet unused. Perpetually dreaming of hitting those stimpacks yet never granted permission. Dreaming and waking simultaneously blurs into feverish thoughts, minds combatting each other. My eyes focus, seeking distraction or some agreeable image to us both, a compromise we can agree on. Our gaze falling on the FNX-9 in our hand.
Sable is fascinated by the gun, so crude, yet ambidextrous, smooth, easily operated, and well manufactured. Iron sights with luminescent tritium, glow in the reduced lighting, night sights made from ingenious manipulation of nuclear waste. Our thoughts align, meshing perfectly for several seconds. To bring sweet relief to our warring minds.
Pistol rises, aiming across the narrow catwalk at a nude man. Flabby, young, and absolutely one of Bazzhole''s college friends. An annoying twat I call Samson.
My head splits at the name. Sable Yurten''s training corrects me, forcing the name ''Samson'' on the face of a man I know as Dante. I know she''s wrong, know his name is missing, overwritten by the burst of memories. But can only think SAMSON. I look away, keeping my vision aimed at the floor. Unable to fight a battle with sleeping Sable, for it is a battle I might lose.
My heart slows, often stopping for seconds at a time. I never sleep. One eye is always cracked, watching armed instructors enter the room, waking my former Earthlings. Blurry outlines don clothing and gear, then seal gasmasks over faces, with only a faint red glow leaking out of their eyeholes.
Through the glass I see a familiar woman. Attractive despite her shaved head. A look only she can pull off due to her skull''s pleasant smoothness that scatters light. Exactly how she looked when we attended earth science 102 a semester ago, and sat opposite each other. Maybe it was some effect of her African heritage, or maybe her parents had not dropped her as a kid, but the shaved head was startlingly feminine. So when Doctor Abrahms went on his rants about railguns being a thousand years out, we rolled our eyes together.
I wonder where old Dr. Abrahms is now. Maybe still in the lecture hall standing at the center of the semicircular room.
Alone. Robbed of any purpose by his student’s abduction. Regret fills my mind, annoyed that I never learned this woman’s name. Then I curse her. She’s resisting the clothes, covering herself and crying. Curse her stupidity.
Play along idiot! Please, don’t make a scene! The medics are not your friends–
–It''s too late. One of the proctors has stepped behind her. C3 pistol exits holster. An energy weapon that creates a tiny ball of accelerated particles no larger than your pinky nail. Precise, there won’t be any overpenetration. Sable’s seen it before. Highly effective against soft targets but bordering on useless against vehicles or shielded opposition. My classmate’s skull is a soft target, putting on a gory display as the medic provides ‘recursive retraining.’
She’s learned the last lesson of her life, and has no need of further instruction.
Not wanting to emulate her, I go limp. Sable’s false memories guiding my eye as recruits don the standards of their station. The ritual is strange really, there are hundreds of us within this corridor, yet only twelve are ever awoken at the same time. Without guns or even a bayonet to split twelve ways we are vulnerable, the proctors have the upper hand, no amount of wig outs could overpower them. Yet they limit themselves to twelve people on the walkway and twelve tubes decanting. The cycle repeats ad infinitum long after I recognize their cycle. Each of the twelve is a flash trained human that follows a pattern, the first is male and likes to wear his laces tight, cinching them down so hard his feet turn white. He’s nervous, those laces will have to be loosened soon or loss of circulation could become nerve damage. A mistake I see repeated in each squad, always by number one.
Meanwhile the seventh soldier is always a woman, slender, and taller than average, she has to receive specific gear, or else the rebreather hose won’t reach from her face to the air scrubber. Shaped so similarly to cali-girl Savannah. Each woman makes my heart beat faster, always wondering if this number seven is the genuine Savannah, a piece of my home, someone familiar to-
-To what? I think, pondering what an ally could do.
Fight? Of course not.
Remind me of Earth? Sure, but the day I forget our homeworld is the day I die.
Hundreds of men, women, and children are released, clothed, and march forth, a procession I observe with growing annoyance as I see professors, schoolmates, girls from my dorm, the gas station clerks, even the Mcdonald''s drive through attendant, I see them all.
Then comes the sight of something that breaks my last reserve of patience. Baz steps from a cryotube, receiving salutes from the proctors as if my EX is their new commander. Two of the soldiers run from the room, returning later with six women in white lab coats. Doctors maybe.
Well, at least there is some justice in the world. Doctors will mean recursive retraining for Bazzhole. I think, only for my mouth to fall open. The women salute, then help him dress, fawning over him like a harem of Whorelys. A C3 pistol is provided, as is a sabre -an actual bladed sword-, then flak armor and shoulder epaulets, all the marks of an officer. A fully commissioned and highly ranked officer.
They made Baz a general.
God damnit Jim.
No longer do I accept this as a hallucination. No longer do I believe someone will rescue me. No, I''m fuming with so much rage that I never notice Whorely''s appearance, nor how she dons a similar white lab coat and is ushered out alongside Baz; leaving me to simmer in silence.
Do not move, do not scream, do not shoot his stupid face. I mentally repeat, watching Baz through half lidded eyes.
Baz is here, installed as my commanding officer. The one sable Yurten trusts with her life.
One of the few people my flashtraining prohibits us from killing. So I seethe. Hate boiling in a stew of impotence as others are woken. Finally shattering my reservations. I''m gonna shoot that motherfucking Bazzhole.
Energy withdraws, fleeing beyond my reach. I cock my head, uncertain. Memories of the orb rise through decades of training. The orb now within me, the tool of creation that could only be abused into destruction. The shared memory builds a neural catwalk reconnecting me to the orb''s power. That''s right, it exists to build.
My first power comes online, ''Augur''. A name I''ve never heard. One mental click and my index finger begins to light up like I''m a wrinkly lil alien on a bicycle. Out of reflex I tap the FNX light discharging into it as lightning, golden energy that flows through the pistol''s materials, improving, augmenting, cleaning, and purging. Abrasive internals are polished and cleaned, mold lines from plastic injection molding vanish, while checkering sharpens to improve my grip. The dent in the triggerguard from the time I took Baz shooting and he dropped the -loaded- pistol, vanishes. Sights sharpen, melding with the slide and tritium luminescing like three golden stars.
How I am aware of this is unknown, yet more information is available, each round has been polished and scrubbed, industrial byproducts removed, gunpowder refined, and bullets individually checked for atomic level variations. Somehow gaining a 50% increase in velocity.
''Okay, so Augur in more like enhance or upgrade.'' I think, deciding not to press my luck again.
The proctors are closer now. Looking at me with curious masks. My hair and pistol in particular. However, they are good dogs of the Singularity, never gawking for more than a second.
Other Earthlings awaken, some are retrained, their blood dripping through metal grating, thousands more march from this chamber, advancing into the unknown. More patterns for my brain to analyze. Especially the eleventh candidate.
Busty, not too tall, nor short, painfully average really in both height and weight. A fascinating error in the otherwise thorough simulations. We’re Americans, which is to say, fat as fuc. Not half starved levies who completed a hundred mile march in full kit before shipping off to this planet. Sable’s memories explain it, but it’s all I can do to not break into laughter at the cheap excuse. I endure the mirth silently, chuckling until my ribs are sore. Our flash training explained the weight gain as ‘cryo sickness’. Since we’re asleep but in a vat of nutrients our bodies supposedly absorb everything, putting on extra weight in a necessary inconvenience that will prepare us for half rations in the future.
The excuse is so half baked I let out a real snort, triggering a blinking alarm on my cryopod.
Aw crap… I’ve done it now. Play along,. Don’t get shot. I think, fingers reflexively tightening on my FNX. Shit, how did I keep that and no clothes? Jim, you letcher!
I swear vengeance against him, then add all those who have wronged me to that list. It''s time for a scorched world approach, kill those who have done evil, annihilate those who facilitated our draft. Never again shall the wicked go unpunished. No cost will go unpaid-
-Visions of the future rise. One way or another Jim will meet a bad end. Four unique deaths, each one stemming from my decisions. I have no need to swear vengeance against the dead, so I let the malice fade. Much to the orb''s relief. Together we exhale, Athena Finley, Mr. Orb, and Sable Yurten, our unity exhaling sharply enough to shake the tube.
My agitation disturbs the cryogel, setting off alarms. One of the proctors sees my light blink. Face unreadable under their gas mask. An emotionless stare of twin rubies that sweeps the rows of people ahead of us. Her head jerks, facing another proctor. Beneath gasmasks and flashtraining we are still human. Facing someone when we talk is such a deeply ingrained habit that not even helmet integrated coms can defy human nature.
The nearest proctor levels an accusing finger, imputing treason, requesting my execution. Words pass between the proctors, eventually resolving into a mutual shrug. Something to the effect of ''they''ll get what''s coming''.
I sweat, watching for thirty minutes as pods are activated all around me, the proctors moving ever closer. Two recursive retrainings hit number eleven. My clonal identity.
Using clone identities is an interesting subterfuge, for it explains how we share memories from flashtraining without confessing the sin of being abducted. Jim was right, cullings result in a smooth transition.
A proctor walks by my squad their gloved hand tapping each cryotube to begin the activation sequence. Until my pod. Time seems to stop, heart thundering in my chest, as the proctor steps past me, activating the next pod before circling back to mine.
Red tinted gas mask looks up at me, pistol in hand. A second -armed- proctor joins the first, two wardens to decant one soldier.
Besides the helmets they have no armor, I can easily shoot them both-
-No, the gel will slow the bullet just like before. I''ll have to pretend to be a recruit until the pistol drains. Which really boils down to me decieving them until I can clean the weapon. I bite back a swallow, uncertain if that will give me away.
My grip tightens on the FNX. These bootlickers will die before I do. No matter what, I am going to survive. Everything is second to that goal, from going home, to finding my step siblings. Survival comes first.
''Step siblings?'' I wonder, confused where that came from.
My energy bar reaches 100 / 100, and the orb speaks.
''Third ability, Oracles Gaze. Used by your other thirds to see you. Do not harm these proctors.'' It says, any further conversation cut off as my pod hisses open-
-and my body moves without permission. Sable Yurten wakes, I extend a hand out of the goo, and the proctors take hold of me, pulling my naked butt out. A surprisingly clean affair. Except for the hair which sticks a if a three inch strip of scotch tape holds tach strand in place, anchoring me to the pod. In the low gravity the goo remains within the pod, somehow adhering tighter to the steel tube than my otherwise hairless figure, which slurps out of the cryogel entirely clean. A quick examination shows all body hair removed save my lashes and eyebrows.
Proctors exchange looks, three more joining. Daggers are drawn, pistols sheathed. Sable swallows, uncertain how a malfunction like this can be cleared.
"Hair won''t fit in the helmet. Cut me free." She orders.
Combat knives saw through hair, their monofilament carbon edges slashing my hair into uneven layers in what has to be a crime against fashion! I''d take Kerrigan''s funky dreads over this.
Sable pops free, completely at home despite the nudity and pistol.
"Thanks." She says, flicking the pistol safety on and accepting the offered helmet.
Red eyes leer, examining my every move. Yet Sable is the perfect little soldier girl. My body dons the wargear, helmet with it''s integrated systems and gasmask, then a thin layer of almost spandex, tighter, more form fitting and entirely meant for hazardous conditions. A sort of anti-radiation spanxs-suit. Then comes bra -no way am I going to war without support!-, shirt, pants, body armor for the chest, outer trousers, overjacket, gloves, boots, and the whole mess is then sealed. Like a fremen stillsuit, meant to keep out radiation instead of keeping us in water. We’ll sweat worse than boiling pigs in these, but we won’t die of cancer.
A tradeoff that might be meaningless. Between flashtraining and Jim’s download I''m well warned of Syrak-9, an irradiated hellscape for half of the planet''s continents, where only mobile mining cities can exist. Scrapping by on merit of being the only ones stupid enough to risk their lives for the wealth of solarium mining.
While the other half of the planet is a forest world, bioengineered plants scrub the toxic atmosphere, and cities that would be more at home in the forests of LothLorien than in space rise thousands of meters into the air. Genuine space elevators, so tall that warships can doc directly to them, allowing a person to walk from dirt into space with their own two feet. Bioengineering at its pinnacle. It helps to have a planetary shield as well. Orbital bombardments can’t hit the forest cities. They say knowledge is power, but none of that knowledge helps me now.
I watch as my body moves, in control of nothing. We march forward, clothed and armed with the FNX.
I will us left, trying to pursue Baz, only to continue straight, marching with my squad of twelve troopers. Steel walls rise a hundred feet into the air and far deeper below, railed gantries and catwalks run from hundreds of rooms, squads of twelve exiting them at regular intervals -identical to ours- all aimed at a single glowing portal. Some kind of instant teleportation gate, looming like an ancient sentinel, more than fifty feet in diameter and covered in bulbous protrusions, as if steel spheres grew from the swirling energies. It glowed with an otherworldly radiance beckoning us into the unknown.
Another protochronian device, one these humans should not posses. An independent warp gate. Possibly one of the prototypes from before the -nameless- shared the tech via their twelve Arkships.
To my Earthling brain it looks like one of those old stargates, the ones from the series where a twenty year old was played by a gray haired badass. Captain Kirk he was not, but the series was a household favorite, due to weekly outings when dad would grill ribeyes while me and mom shared the latest gossip over homemade popcorn.
Melted butter tickles my nose, lingering in the filtered air of my mask, the half-empty bowl resting between us, casualties of our snacking scattered across a napkin. Every so often, one of us would toss out a theory about what would happen next—sometimes right, sometimes hilariously wrong. But it didn’t matter. What mattered were those moments: the warmth of being together, the shared excitement, the way the show was more than just a sci-fi adventure. It was ours.
My home.
Sable Yurten tightens her gloves. Half of Earth is fighting a war after being mind wiped. Maybe Stargate was the psi op it always teased, preparing us for the day our world was culled. Come to think of it, the Goa''uld even used the same terminology.
I keep pace with the squad our combat boots striking the metallic floor in unison. Soon passing by a floating disk covered in officers. The embodiment of controlled chaos, half watching us, half focused on screens or communication arrays. Several aids move to and fro, giving reports and keeping the logistical war machine running. I’m impressed.
Across Syrak-9 the war raged in terrible splendor. Towering heavy tanks with plasma-scorched armor rumbled across the blasted plains, once verdant forests burnt to bare dirt, cannons belching fire into the writhing mass of saurian warriors. The creatures, reptilian nightmares with gleaming plasma rifles, howled as they surged forward, their clawed feet churning up dirt as they returned fire in dazzling neon sparks.
Above, the sky was a graveyard of falling stars. Dropships roared in from high orbit, only to be intercepted by sizzling beams from hidden anti-air batteries. One came screaming down, hull aflame, engines coughing black smoke as it spiraled toward the battlefield. It hit the ground in a detonation that sent a shockwave through her ribs, instantly crushing her hull.
The burning wreck vanished, replaced with a siren wailing from the command post enemy Juggernauts have breached the eastern trench.
Sable''s mouth begins to water, this crazy bitch salivating at the thought of combat.
Ohhhhhh boy... I''m in danger. Please get assigned to bunker duty, or digging trenches! I''m only a squishy lil human girl without Terran power armor or Protoss shielding!
Four billion recruits have been drafted, mind wiped, flash trained, and moved across galactic arms in a matter of hours, making me question the volume of war. Is four billion a daily death toll? Or have we been recruited with intent? As part of a conquering push to take the entire star system? Syrak-9 is a special world. Worthy of a dedicated armada, if the -nameless- ever allowed such a thing.
Speakers blare, repeating a simple briefing.
“-will seek out and destroy all alien lifeforms. Syrak-9 is a solarium mining world, do not use or allow any form of irradiation. Per treaty, no orbital support is permitted, nor may you leave the continent. Violators are subject to immediate execution. Good Luck. You will seek out and destroy all alien-”
Squads run into the portal in waves, half armed, half armored, and a few -like mine- without either. A staff officer, some kind of lieutenant armored in pocket protectors and carrying a spare clipboard instead of a pistol, points to us. To number one, to Specialist Rogers, a trainee on the verge of Corporalhood and defacto squad leader.
“Your weapons will be on the other side.” Officer clipboard calls, nasally voice echoing through the gasmask.
Of course it would be Baz who gave the order. With a bald Ashley standing behind him.