《Tri-Heliar Offense》


 Chapter 1 Last Day on the Job

    I peek over the lip of my rudy trench, inhaling boiling air from my suit¡¯s rebreather. Of course those last shots hit my air supply too. My HUD adjusts the amount of life support left, numbers spinning as four autocannons pivot towards my groin.


    ¡°Got a leak here, lettin'' out emergency air¡ªbetter grab a top-up, mate, quick as ya can!¡± Says the suit in its distinctly incorrect Australian accent.


    Of course it had to be an aussie. Getting reminded about those two assholes is the last thing I need right now.


    *click click click* echoes through the trench as firing pins slam against empty champers. Long since dry of bullets.


    ¡°Can it you stupid bot. Can¡¯t you tell the pilot¡¯s already dead?¡± I snap, giving its servoes a power-armor enhanced kick.


    Steel snaps under my boot, hydraulic fluid sprays across the groin and stomach of my armor, as if the dead pilot¡¯s soul lingers, wishing to mock his murderer. I glance down at the cyborg, was the pilot even male? Impossible to guess after the augmentations they¡¯d undergone to become a Juggernaut assault mech. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of being cut apart and fused into the warmachine. Limbs severed, replaced by cannons, missile launchers, or treads. Absolutely disgusting.


    My helmet chirps at me, automatically opening the channel to my ¡®squadmate¡¯.


    ¡°Pawlo? Awre you awight?¡± Asks a lisping voice too young to be on the battlefield.


    Especially this battlefield.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I wince, trying not to let the pain show. ¡°Suit is buggered. Ah, can you check that bunker for a spare?¡± I manage to say, struggling to keep my voice even as I duck beneath the edge and face my only remaining ally. She¡¯s picking her way through the trench, heading towards a tunnel entrance. It''s some kind of ammo depot or bunker. The girl¡¯s suit is identical to mine, eight feet tall, made from layers of composite armor to deflect multiple hits from any angle.


    Even after hours in that suit, it still surprises me that she can move it at all. Given her handicap of being three and a half feet tall. We really should have used something other than artillery shells as stilts, they¡¯re too rigid. Seems like they¡¯re tripping the suit¡¯s crush limiters. All the pesky little bits of software that keep the powered armor from actuating limbs beyond what is humanly possible. Without those nannies the hydraulics and servoes would hyperextend every joint until the limbs came free. Yikes. Getting bent into space slime is quite low on my list of priorities. Another warning light flashes in my HUD, this time for radiation poisoning. I¡¯ve exceeded a month¡¯s threshold. Cancer is almost guaranteed now, my only hope is to seal the bulletholes in my armor or acquire a new suit.


    Logic whispers an answer to my problems. I¡¯m the one fighting for us, it¡¯s only right for me to take the working armor. Forget that Kerrigan would last whole minutes in my busted suit before it cooked her alive. Disgust overloads me, hating that I even considered the thought!


    ¡°Otay Pawlo.¡± Is Kerrigan¡¯s response, oblivious to my vile machinations.


    Nausea hits me harder than bullets. A one two combo with her innocence that hammers my ribs. She trusts me completely, if I asked she would not hesitate to swap suits. Might even ask if the air was supposed to burn as she handed me the only good rebreather.


    A tear rolls down my cheek. No, This is my battlefield, I won¡¯t lose myself. Not like I did back on Earth. Kerrigan is my ally, we will live or die together. They might have taken Earth away from us, but we¡¯re still human! A blind scanner ping ripples through the trench, bouncing off our armors before the alert appears in my helmet. Too late for countermeasures. The source must be close. In seconds those radio waves will tell someone exactly where we are. Probably enter us into their network of targeting computers and send an artillery shell at our predicted locations.


    ¡°Kerrigan! Run!¡± I shout, checking the rounds in my flechette pistol.


    But I already know the answer. The pistol¡¯s electronic readout displays 0/100.


    Kerrigan¡¯s shuffle turns into a frantic straight-legged waddle, flailing as the suit compensates for a kid pilot. I don¡¯t want the last thing she hears to be my shouting. It¡¯s not like anyone gave her a choice of being here. So I activate the com once more.


    ¡°Thanks Kerrigan. Be quick now.¡± I gasp, doing my best to keep the pain to myself. No reason to make a child half my age worry about bullet wounds. Besides, I already rubbed some dirt into them, nothing more I can do now.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    My armor, slick with hydraulic fluid slips off the Juggernaut, sending me cartwheeling over autocannons and empty missile racks. Their dry clicking chases me into the mud twenty feet below. Suit dampeners cushion the blow, sending fire through the bullet holes in my side and shoulder.


    I need to get into the bunker before artillery or some curious little killbot shows up. The battlefield above the trenches is entering a lul, most factions seem to be realizing someone sabotaged their power cells and are struggling to find replacements that don¡¯t overload their circuits. Courtesy of yours truly. A fact only the Novan Technomancy of Steel is aware of.


    I think.


    I really hope so¡­


    Which is why I¡¯m hiding on what I thought was their last soldier, praying the next Technomancer wave won¡¯t come, or will be another bulletless Juggernaut. Anything more than an unsuspecting soft dick will be the death of me. Flashing lights warn of my left reactor overheating, going super critical. Normally I could shunt spare coolant from my right to even out the load, but it¡¯s nonfunctional from the five autocannon bullets lodged inside. Minutes of air left, enemies incoming, and busted armor.


    Sorry Kerrigan, this is as far as I go.


    My hud blinks red.


    A new warning appears.


    ¡°Oi, big one¡¯s on the way¡ªgrab your dingo an¡¯ kiss that bitch goodbye!¡± Says the suit.


    ¡°Of every accent in the universe, why did it have to be Australian!¡±


    The sounds of screaming artillery shells and laser fire cease abruptly as the few survivors of this pocket war receive the same warning. Except the Tulvarians who continue their war-hooting. For spacefaring iguanas I would have expected more intelligence from them, or at least vocalizations that are distinguishable from a dozen bovines in heat.


    A thin line of black appears in the atmosphere above me. No reading on the HUD means the missile is out of my suit¡¯s scanner range, yet visible. An infantryman¡¯s way of saying ¡®InterContinental Ballistic Missile¡¯. I swallow, trying to work spit back into my mouth. The missile is falling straight down, plummeting on an angle of attack that is close to ninety degrees, indicating an orbital launch. Probably one of the warships who are here on ¡®observational¡¯ duties.


    ¡°Please don¡¯t be a Technomancy bombardment.¡± I whisper.


    I value my own hide quite highly, it¡¯s the best one if I can be allowed to say so. Yes, that¡¯s not saying a whole lot considering I''ve only had two bodies, but still! Orbital annihilation is low on my list of preferred deaths. For an instant I¡¯m conflicted, death by ICBM would be significantly faster than cancer¡­


    My head shakes before I can finish the thought. No, I can¡¯t convince myself to die. Doesn¡¯t matter how quick or painless it might be, I am going to survive. So is Kerrigan. We will make it back to Earth. Even if I have to stack bodies all the way to space and commandeer a dropship.


    Energy batteries whine, thrumming to life for several horrible seconds. Each instant bringing the missile deeper into our atmosphere. A dozen lasers illuminate the sky. Nine go wide, vanishing into the darkness of space at .9C. Effectively the speed of light. Three beams score direct hits, one on the nose and two center mass. I smile, knowing a single laser is enough to destroy the missile. Orbital bombardments via missiles are ineffective because they¡¯re too easy to shoot down. Its a strategic error on whatever captain thought one missile would hit me. A blue sphere glows softly around the missile deflecting all hits, little more than the blink of death.


    The missile, dropped from orbit, is shielded.


    No one puts shielding on an average missile. It can only be one thing. Someone broke the rules and decided to flip the table. Win the war by erasing everyone, including themselves. Galactic sanctions would be imposed, a small comfort to my soon-to-be vaporized body.


    Light illuminates space, a hundred salvoes impact a single ship. Looks like those nameless cunts just gave permission and every faction shot them down. This planet really is valuable to the galaxy. Unlike Earth.


    Cunts? Great, the suit¡¯s got me speaking Australian. Just what I need. Damn, two lives and I couldn¡¯t get laid in either one. Life¡¯s just not fair. With my luck I¡¯ll get reincarnated into a box jellyfish and spend eternity eating aussie asses.


    A nuclear flash illuminates my world. Colored electric green by the instant sun over me, tattling on the treaty breaker. Why would the Technomancy drop a nuke on little ole me? They''d broken the only rule -tenuous as it might be- during this battle royale. More confusing still, they relied upon the solarium mines native to this world more than any other faction! Why poison the well? Now the nuclear radiation would be absorbed into the mines, irradiating anything that attempted to harvest them for the next millenia, if not two. Worse, the solarium would operate at one tenth efficiency until the radioactive particulates worked themselves out of the crystalline lattice, a galaxy spanning death knell.


    My faceplate glass polarizes to a hard mirror finish, deflecting nuclear light for all its worth. I¡¯m too close. Soon the shockwave will hit. Motors whine, slamming the opaque ¡°Hazardous Environmental Litigating Protections¡± over my faceplate. The HELP system is designed to ricochet bullets and horny exes, like a steel shutter slamming closed. The highest level of protection possible for an armored trooper.


    I sigh, surprised to still be alive.


    ¡°NUCLEAR DETONATION DETECTED!¡±


    ¡°FIND COVER YA CUNTS!¡±


    ¡°Yeah yeah, thanks a lot. Never would have seen that without you.¡± I say, chinning the faceplate to silence the alarm.


    All goes white.

 Chapter 2 Why would you?

    -Thirty six hours prior to nuclear launch-


    Sweat beads roll down my nose. The feather hovers in midair, suspended a foot above the coffee table. My hands tremble as my entire world focuses on that little white feather. It¡¯s short and fluffy, the kind you would stuff a down pillow with.


    ¡°Very impressive.¡± Says Ashley, slipping her hand onto my thigh and squeezing.


    Her touch pops my concentration and the feather drops. White fluff floating to the coffee table.


    ¡°Yeah, bloody impressive mate. Crikey, you¡¯re a real Olympic legend, aren¡¯t ya?¡± Says Baz, heading for the door with his protein shake. ¡°Off to the gym, smell ya cunts later.¡±


    I know he means it as a compliment, but the jab stings. Not the sarcasm, that¡¯s nothing new. Whatever radioactive squirrel gave humanity this power did not divvy it up evenly. Baz, my best friend, scored a zero out of twenty on every Extra Sensory Perception -ESP- test we took.


    The term includes all kinds of quirks from the relatively common telepathy, to clairvoyance, or the rarest of quirks, precognition. Other ESP abilities fall into the category as well, most commonly telekinesis. From our first day of high school to last week when I maxed out the scale during our college midterms. 20/20. That score left me feeling nothing but guilt. Since it''s a lie. The test was administered to me privately by Dr. TJ Hooker. My academic advisor and the scientist in charge of my second scholarship. Once a week Dr. TJ, as he prefers to be called, hooks me up to a hundred electrodes and runs diagnostics or brain scans while I lift feathers. My personal record is three at a time, roughly .02 grams. Though that was in an MRI machine and the magnets might have supercharged my powers.


    So Baz is right, telekinesis is completely worthless. A penny is 2.5 grams, thirteen times heavier than what I can lift, and before you go and say copper is metal and metal is dense, a pencil is 6 grams. I¡¯m literally too weak to lift a pencil, forget about a finger. Can¡¯t even bend a single spring in my pistol either. Still, it got me a scholarship which is how I¡¯m paying for the apartment Baz and I share. Without my odd ability we¡¯d be forced into the freshman dorms, six men crammed into one bathroom closet. I shudder just thinking about it. The door slams behind Baz, not his fault. This apartment has seen a steady occupation of college students and the door is crooked, as if some drunk coed tried to sit on it during a superbowl sunday.


    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to him.¡± Said Ashley, resting her head on my shoulder. ¡°You know he¡¯s jealous.¡±


    ¡°Yep, don¡¯t need to be empathic to guess that.¡± I mutter, wiping the sweat from my face.


    She let go of my thigh, rising from the couch we¡¯re on. Her lips find my cheek, leaving a residue there. Probably red lipgloss to match her nails.


    ¡°Just keep practicing. These powers only showed up a couple years ago, so who knows. Maybe ten years from now you¡¯ll be flying passenger airplanes.¡±


    I crack a smile. Ashley always knows how to make me laugh, a perk of being empathic. She¡¯s the best thing to ever happen to me, an old friend I finally found the balls to ask out after Baz badgered me for a year. Now we¡¯ve been dating for six months.


    ¡°Hey Ash, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re in my life.¡±


    Her hand tenses, squeezing my thigh.


    ¡°Yeah babe, me too.¡± She says, concealing her Australian accent.


    Both their parents work for my dad¡¯s company, which is how they¡¯re both in America. Part of Warp Gate Freight LLC¡¯s efforts to secure its future. When Australia shut down entirely for the virus, a number of children were given the opportunity to attend school in America. As cousins Baz and Ashley were allowed to live under the same roof, it also helped that Baz¡¯s old man was the Chief Financial Officer for the Australian branch of WGF llc¡¯s operations. So those two foreign exchange students ended up staying at my house since dad was the owner and CEO of the company. Nepotism at its finest. Wish I could have gotten some of that. For me, it was straight A¡¯s or you were grounded; or you bought your way out. Dad was interesting like that, proscribing a financial value to everything. Take ten minutes pooping? Well, that was a drop in your net worth. Ten minutes compounded over the next sixty years, which was somehow three hundred years.


    Maybe dad¡¯s math was why we were in debt.


    I bit my tongue. That joke wasn¡¯t true, not even close. Someone was embezzling funds from WGF by the millions and hiding it well. Three audits all said the same thing, we were profitable, yet falling deeper into the red. All shipments were tracked on both sides with remote cameras and third party investigators. Someone inside our company was playing the clown and burning half a million dollars each year.


    Ashley sensed me tensing and stood, correctly guessing I wanted a minute to myself. Calculations ran through my mind weighing the different classes and test scores. This would be another year I scored straight A¡¯s. If I kept up my grades I might be able to get a job at the IRS and get the resources necessary to track down the embezzlers. A year and a half, that¡¯s all it would take, then I could take over the company as the American CFO. Ashley and I could settle down then, have a few kids¡­


    Of course, that assumed the business survived til then. Covid really did a number on the finances. Shipping lanes shut down for months. We had to take out loans to stay afloat, a cool hundred million dollars of debt. My double scholarship for grades and telekinesis won¡¯t cover that. Hell, it won¡¯t cover the interest for a month.


    ¡°Sorry Ash, I¡¯m just tired after midterms. Bet it''s the same for Baz.¡±


    She closed the cupboard and comes to stand behind me, scratching my scalp with red acrylic nails. So nice they send tingles down my spine. How she finds the time to be so well put together is beyond me.


    ¡°How about you take a nap while I run off to the store. That way I can wake you up with some hot buns.¡±


    I snort, handing over my credit card. Finally, something the scholarship will cover.


    ¡°Sounds amazing.¡± I say, already drooling.


    She pats my head and exits, careful to shut the still open door. Footsteps fading as she walks to the left, old walls creaking with her passing. If it weren¡¯t so cheap to live in these old dorms I would move, but Baz isn¡¯t contributing to rent so we have to live somewhere on my scholarship alone. The floor above me creaks as if Ashley¡¯s heading for the roof and not downstairs to the parking lot. That¡¯s odd. I wipe my face with a napkin, getting rid of the feather sweat and residue of Ashley¡¯s kiss. I¡¯m tempted to leave it, keep the reminder of her affection. But that¡¯s how you get cooties.


    The napkin wipes away grit, coming off brown. Strange, Ashley¡¯s lipgloss was red, she always matches nails and lips. It should be cherry flavored today¡­ Then the scent hits me, chocolate protein powder. I give the napkin a dirty look. My ceiling creaks again.


    Alarm bells ring in my mind. Which I ignore. We¡¯re roommates, we share food all the time.


    I¡¯m already walking up the stairs. Slow as my heart will allow. Methodically shifting my weight forward to avoid creaking. This apartment building, all six stories of it, is a mess. Long past its sell by date. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if the studs rotted out and collapsed a wall or two.


    On the sixth floor there is a lobby we like to call ¡®the roof¡¯, there¡¯s a pool table, a fridge, and four TVs. All set to the local news station and permanently muted. Except for today. Someone set them all to play Zoolander and turned up the volume.


    A lump forms in my throat, hand already shaking as I turn the doorknob and unlock the door. I stand there for a moment.


    Do I really want to know?


    No. I¡¯m better off closing this door and walking away.


    Air pressure tugs the door open, just an inch. Enough to see inside.


    I freeze, wishing my eyes are deceiving me. Eyelids actuate, blinking several times in disbelief. What I¡¯m seeing can¡¯t be possible. It just can¡¯t!


    I bite my tongue. Hard enough to taste metal. My lingual pain dulls compared to the agony within my human soul. There is no avoiding it. I admit the truth before me. Ashley¡¯s even wearing the ¡®together forever¡¯ necklace I gave her, half of a broken heart. There is no mistaking the two people I know best in this world, nor are there any misinterpretations of what they¡¯re doing on top of each other. Clothes are on, but that doesn¡¯t hinder Ashley¡¯s gyrations. The slut is riding my best friend, while his tongue is playing hockey with her tonsils.


    On a purely cognitive level I¡¯m impressed at her flexibility. My mind¡¯s pitiful attempt to shut out the trauma and process something. My mouth hits the floor, still not open as wide as theirs-


    -oh gawd, where are their tongues going?!


    A car alarm blares outside, echoing up the stairwell behind me. I want to die. To vanish into nothing, to become invisible. How could they? This can¡¯t be true!


    The alarm does nothing to disturb my roommate or my girlfriend, if anything, it encourages them to press deeper. I want to puke, to disappear from sight, to cease existing. Fly into the sun and die. Throw myself down the six flights of stairs I just climbed.


    Six years of friendship. Gone in a second. Six months of our relationship, thrown away for¡­ Her cousin? WHY? I see red, sorrow raging into fury. Wishing that I was a death star, blast them into bits so small they make subatomic quarks look massive. Erase those two from existence along with every memory we¡¯d ever made.


    My body moves on its own. Blind to the sudden drop in volume as four TVs turn back to the news. Headline ¡®Are alien¡¯s among us?¡¯ Ashley will be his whore before I can reach our apartment. I want to scream ¡®go fuck yourselves¡¯ but fear that will only make it a reality.


    ¡°Yeah baby do the thing, like yesterday. Yeah, like that!¡± Moans Baz.


    Like yesterday¡­


    This isn¡¯t the first time then.


    My thoughts repeat down the stairwell and into my dorm room. The one I share with Baz the asshole. Our apartment consists of four total rooms, a kitchen and common area, the bathroom, and the bedroom we share. Making us the closest of roommates, as only two men who share a bunk bed can be. A dark thought crosses my black thoughts. I grab Baz¡¯ pillow and sniff it, smelling Ashley¡¯s shampoo, some fancy butternut and aloe nonsense that costs three times what head and shoulders does. For a bottle one eighth the size.


    ¡°Oh for fuuuuckkkssake!¡± I scream, opening the window.


    Logic abandons me as the pillow sails through the screen, flying across the soccer field. A second later the mattress follows, falling short of the goalpost below.


    ¡°How long?¡± I growl, staring at the half empty bunk.


    The answer is obvious. I turn, facing the desk we share. Baz keeps a journal. Twelve notebooks propped up by a hot pink notebook on one end. The pink one is his sister¡¯s. I flip that one open first, inside the cover one word appears.


    ¡®Ashley¡¯


    ¡°Fucking liar.¡± I say.


    In seconds I¡¯ve opened the other journals, skimming their contents over the past year and a half. Most of it was inane drivel, Baz had never learned American grammar but a few things stood out.


    >December 9th: ¡°Ashley found a ring. Just another month and he¡¯ll finally eat shit. Like he deserves.¡± If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    >December 7th: ¡°Never wanted to come to America with that spoiled kid Apollo.¡±


    >May 11th: ¡°Can¡¯t afford a ring. So we¡¯ll get the rich kid to pay for it. Took weeks to plan but the local jeweler sells returned rings for half off, something about sizing them making the gold brittle.¡±


    >February 14th: ¡°Been saving the rent money, Apollo¡¯s got no idea we¡¯re squatting. Makes me hard just thinking about the day I¡¯ll move out and call the sheriff.¡±


    I know reading this will only make things worse. Upset me more, but I can¡¯t stop now. We¡¯ve been in the apartment for a year, this journal is from seven months ago, a full month before Ashley and I began dating. She was never my girlfriend. I was the side piece. The homewrecker. Then I find it. The single passage that explains everything Baz has ever done. Dated May 13th but hidden between two pages I have to peel apart as they¡¯re stuck together with some dried paste. The reason I initially skipped it.


    >May 13th: ¡°I¡¯ve got a problem. Ashley¡¯s gorgeous but she doesn¡¯t do it for me anymore. Last night I had the dream again, where I¡¯m hiding in the closet watching her ride someone else. Oh man. Haven¡¯t had a wet dream like that¡­ ever. I¡¯m still turgid. Never felt so disgusted and aroused. Would be better if it was that fucker Apollo¡­¡±


    I stop reading.


    Too stunned by my best friend¡¯s humiliation kink. This is going to get ugly, he¡¯ll enjoy being dragged in front of a judge. Car alarms are blaring up and down the streets outside. As if the whole world is being shaken violently. My hand slips into the bottom drawer of my desk retrieving my hardcase with a stylized FN printed on the front. My fingers are steady. Combination lock opens to their touch and in seconds I¡¯ve got my 9mm FNX pistol in hand. Three magazines accompany it, each loaded with seventeen hollowpoints. I pull the slide back chambering a round then raise the safety. A flick of my thumb can ready the weapon now. Its holster ends up attached to me, the pistol tucked beneath my shirt, appendix carry. I bag the journals, tossing them all into the plastic shopping bags we keep on hand for trashcan liners.


    After all, a hundred million dollars is only ten billion cents, and liners cost a quarter each. Money turns my mind back to the ring. Evil journals in hand I pull the box out of my sock drawer flicking it open to find the ring, unsized and unset. Still in the sealed baggie from ¡®Mira¡¯s Jewelry¡¯. ¡®Top shelf gems at cutthroat prices¡¯ is written across the plastic, where it keeps my receipt safe.


    Speed reading has always been a talent of mine, otherwise school would have been impossible to complete. Though it meant I read every receipt. Mira¡¯s has a 30 day money back guarantee. So long as the ring is unsized. Gold is highly malleable, but once a band has been expanded to fit a finger you can¡¯t realistically shrink the ring. So now its my turn to fuck him.


    I¡¯m out the door, headed towards Mira¡¯s with the ring, pistol, and journals, never once pausing to ask myself if this is a good idea. Return the ring, move out, call the landlord and maybe the sheriff too. Midterms just ended, so I¡¯ve got two weeks before school starts again, plenty of time.


    A leggy blonde meets me at the bottom of the stairs, waving hello over the blaring alarms. She is Ashley¡¯s roommate, and supposedly Baz¡¯s girlfriend. Once again making me ask how long they¡¯ve been planning. Savannah holds up a letter with my name on it, voice lost in the blaring alarms.


    ¡°I can¡¯t hear you!¡± I shout.


    Savannah shrugs, tucking the letter into my pants before heading upstairs. My car is blaring, even after I hit the alarm button it¡¯s still screaming, radio on full volume. Some news broadcast going on about national emergency line or some other clickbait nonsense.


    Whatever it is, I can¡¯t hear it over my hatred of whorely and Bazhole. Fury steadies my hands as I pull open the letter, skimming it¡¯s contents.


    ¡ª


    Notice of Academic Probation


    Dear Apollo Finley


    This letter serves as an official notification regarding your current academic standing with [University Name]. Our records indicate that your cumulative GPA of .5; has fallen below the minimum threshold required for satisfactory academic performance as outlined in the College of Engineering¡¯s guidelines. As such, you have been placed on academic probation, effective immediately, until such time that your GPA exceeds a 3.0 and you are, once again, on track for graduation. Until such time as your GPA improves, all scholarships are suspended.


    Academic probation is a structured period during which you are expected to improve your academic standing to meet the necessary requirements for continued enrollment in your program. During this probationary period, you will need to adhere to specific guidelines designed to support your academic progress and ensure your success in the program. Failure to meet the minimum standards listed below by the end of this period may result in further academic action, including but not limited to suspension or dismissal from the university.


    You are required to meet with the [enter colleges name]¡¯s dean to discuss potential improvements. We strongly encourage you to consult with your academic advisor to develop a comprehensive plan for improvement. This may include recommended study resources, academic support services, and a suggested course load adjustment to better support your academic goals. Our institution remains committed to helping you achieve success, and there are numerous resources available to assist you during this probationary period¡­


    ¡ª


    ¡°What¡­


    the¡­


    FUCK!¡±


    They were putting me on academic probation for failing summer school? These cunts didn¡¯t even have the decency to fill out a form right! Really, [enter colleges name]? What kind of half-assed bureaucrat screws up paint by the numbers?! Who were they to ruin my life? I throw the letter, bouncing it off the radio and scream, adding my voice to the blaring alarms.


    How could this be happening? The scores from my tests aren¡¯t even back yet! And I thought I did great!


    ¡­


    Shit¡­


    You never do as well as you think on midterms.


    I must have flunked all of them. But this is only the summer term! Sure I failed my underwater basket weaving class but that doesn¡¯t count. It was a summer elective class meant to help me socialize, well, and check out Ashley in a bikini. Her curves¡­ Had never been mine.


    My hand finds the pistol once more. Faint buzzing fills my head, like there is a fly behind my ear. I reach up to swat it, only for my hand to go limp. Along with my whole body, eyelids included. All I can see is a blue window, not from the car, but from my mind. A screen.


    [HELLO PEOPLE OF¨C ah hell jim, what is this planet called again?]


    [Earth. Like it always is.]


    [Shit, that last one being called Eden has got me off kilter]


    The words are speaking into my brain directly, verbally and visually being displayed on screen in English. Which does nothing to make the two voices sound less like Curly and Moe stooging up a storm. This is easily the worst trip of my life. I¡¯d rather have a schizophrenia break than listen to this. Mentally I try and dismiss the message, receiving a red flash and slight screen shake in way of refusal.


    ¡°Great, the two stooges now have unskippable cutscenes.¡±


    [HELLO PEOPLE OF EARTH! We are your gracious overlords, the protectors of your spiral arm, and you are our planted children. I¡¯m pleased to inform you all that you¡¯ve exceeded our expectations for a successful crop, which is excellent news for us both! Since your society will persevere after our culling. Now I know that word has some unfriendly connotations to some of you, but our holy Singularity has devoted a great deal of resources in keeping your planet alive. So it¡¯s only fair to pay your taxes. We¡¯ll be drafting everyone between the ages of twelve and forty two. Roughly four billion people who will then join our highly valued soldiers on the frontlines.]


    Culling? Unfriendly connotations is right! That¡¯s what we do to parasites or extraneous bits in a computer, not living breathing people! Wait, conscription? Taxes? This can¡¯t be happening. I¡¯m going to be drafted to fight an interstellar war? No! No no¨C


    Oh¡­ I don¡¯t have to share a room with Bazhole anymore. Guess there are worse things. Part of me embraces the concept, eager to escape Bazzhole and Whorely.


    [I see some of you are reacting poorly to this news. We¡¯ll be taking all nuclear devices, so you can stop launching them now. Have no fear, if you comply peacefully then we will drop off nine gates that will allow instantaneous transportation to any continent, as well as to the two gates we¡¯ve already left in orbit. Your sacrifice is the price of admission into the Holy Singularity proper. Your entire planet will be modernized as soon as we take the mining world of Syrak-9. All taxable proceeds will then be routed through your earth. Soon you will have all the modern amenities of nanotech, holograms, and instant interstellar communication. Welcome all. Now just sit tight, we¡¯ll be teleporting all munitions, nukes- oh wow, you Chinese really went crazy with these, two hundred thousand nukes. Naughty naughty.]


    By the tone of his ¡®voice¡¯ Apollo could envision the announcer waggling his finger. Like they were some misbehaving little child. Quite rude, but not necessarily undeserved, China only publicly admitted a few thousand nukes. This was nearly a hundred times what treaties allowed. An old saying comes to mind, followed by another. It¡¯s only cheating if you get caught, but in love and war there are no rules only the winners.


    [Cmon Haime, you¡¯re butchering the announcement!] Snapped a second voice.


    [Right right, oh where was I? Eh, doesn¡¯t matter. Have your gates, we¡¯ll be taking guns, bullets, nukes, four billion ish people and yada yada. You¡¯ll be mindwiped and then flashtrained to fill in our gaps. If you find any of this disturbing, be sure to report to your nearest medical professional. We give them weekend trainings specifically on recursive mindwipes! Toodles.]


    [HAIME! DO IT RIGHT!]


    [Okay, fine. Look here earthlings. The Technocracy is about to seize this world. If half of you don¡¯t bite the pillow and stop them, they will lobotomize you and everyone you¡¯ve ever loved-]


    If they started with Baz and Ashley I would not be opposed to that¡­


    [-so the Singularity has received emergency orders from our AI senate, a unanimous decision mind you, to prevent that from happening. I was drafted as well, this really isn¡¯t a bad thing. Some will die, but most of you will become generals, pilots, doctors, and more. We even have a few million slots for colonists. Flash training will give you all the skills anyone could need. It¡¯ll be like going to sleep and then waking up having gone through twelfth grade, college, and a trade school. Except you¡¯ll remember your lessons. Really great tech.]


    Our stairwell has windows lining the outside wall, I see Savannah reach our apartment, just as light engulfs her body then shoot off into the sky. Thousands of identical lights take hold of people, whisking them away. Several lifted vehicles are teleported as well, I have less than a second to think as the light snags me, pulling me into the sky. One second I was in my car, pondering murder and the next I was shirtless.


    Slime coated my entire body in a moistness that made me gag.


    I gasp, inhaling to scream, only for warm fluid to fill my lungs. No, not warm, hot, body temperature, slightly salty yet subtly sweet, like a bag of boiled saline poured into Kool-Aid. Kinda tasty in a sweaty way. Glass surrounds me, I¡¯m in a tube. About to drown in whatever concoction they¡¯ve isolated me in. My nostrils flare, inhaling a second time on reflex. I prepare for the end, wishing Baz and Ashley a similar fate. An echo of the announcement rises in my mind, drafting all ages twelve to forty two. Mom is only thirty eight. She could be here too. Damnit. Seconds pass, I inhale again, but my vision is fine. My mind works. Is this death? Had the tax collectors killed her?


    Why would tax collectors kill us by drowning? It was like the IRS collecting your taxes only to put the bills through a shredder. Nothing made any sense. Then I realize that¡¯s standard operating procedure for governments.


    Amongst four billion people, I¡¯m the typo.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Teleportation complete.¡± Chimes an alarm.


    The cockpit is cool, both pilots hunched over screens, monitoring the cryopods for any abnormalities.


    ¡°Dude, Jimmy, what trauma did these people go through? Why are so many skitzo? Ah hell, the most advanced country is the fatest too. We¡¯ll have to reject most of these worthless sacks of shit.¡± Haime says, more for the sake of bitching than for conversation.


    ¡°Who cares, we got a billion more people than projections accounted for. A billion man! With a B! We can flush the outliers from the past twelve worlds and still exceed every quota! Don¡¯t you see it Haime, we¡¯re rich! Hallelujah!¡± Jim shouts, unbuckling his harness and moving to leave.


    ¡°Abandoning station already? We ain¡¯t even cashed in yet!¡± Snaps Haime, a frown slashing itself across his face.


    ¡°Bro, I¡¯m just so excited! Even a dead world or the federales won¡¯t break us. This run will pay for my next century! Gotta go inspect the cargo, see it with my own eyes, not just on sensors.¡± He gasped, feeling lightheaded under the assault of billions of credits.


    Red warning light suddenly blare, bathing the cockpit in warnings.


    ¡°Aw what the hell!¡± Jim snaps, jumping back into his seat and checking the sensor readout.


    ¡°A portal opening? We launched those seconds ago! Who in their right mind-¡±


    More red lights appeared. Ships from twelve separate factions were already queued up, Transiting through the gate in order of request and priority payments. Haime¡¯s face hangs open, staring at the first ship to emerge.


    ¡°Jim, if we die¨C¡±


    ¡°Shutup asshole! Transmit our charter before they vaporize us!¡± Jim shouts.


    Seconds pass as the sleek crystalline ship emerges from the disk of light. An Azhurai Conglomerate frigate. Fast, armed to the teeth, and shielded better than most homeworlds. Oddly conical due to the main gun, a prismatic laser array capable of variable output, all the way from shaving unibrow precision to slicing and dicing the moon strength.


    ¡°Charter has been transmitted. Please leave us alone.¡± Haime prayed.


    Three lights begin blinking green, enemy missile locks that stopped tracking the ship.


    ¡°Azhurai ship turning away, they acknowledge our collection duties as valid.¡± Gasped Jim.


    ¡°Thank the nameless!¡± Said Haime, collapsing into his chair.


    A single light began blinking, a com channel. Jim shut his eyes, praying for a moment before answering the com. Two minutes later he spoke.


    ¡°They noticed our open charter. Ballsack. They want any special grade merchandise we have-¡±


    Blaring claxions erupted as twenty additional warships emerged from the portal. Swift Singularity frigates, lumbering moons the Technomancy call dreadnoughts, a swarm of bioships tethered to a single hive mind, and everything in between. Both pilots looked at each other, then got to work. No one wants to be around to see what is going to happen. Earth is about to be conquered, an easy task given how many guns and bombs were sitting in their hold. Safely stored. Instead of on Earth. Without ICBMs or Nuclear weapons these humans had no chance.


    ¡°Damn. Waste of a good world.¡± Said Jim, maneuvering the arkship behind Luna as the ships began firing. Half at each other, and half at the surface.

 chapter 3 Welcome to the War

    Space combat is generally a long drawn out process as ships detect each other and maneuver across the length of a star system. All that gets dumpstered when twenty ships emerge from the same round kilometer of a gate. In such close quarters visible sensors become meaningful, as well as armor and point defense systems. Two things human civilizations specialized in. Singularity frigates rolled dumping missiles from every tube in a mad scatter. Smart missiles flew and maximum burn seeking targets and mostly finding bioships. Chaff pods, counter mines, and the living ammunition of the biofleet countered hard, launching their own living projectiles at the frigates.


    Point defense beams carved a bioship in half, burning through the tiny patrol craft in a desperate attempt to keep it from ramming them. A venture they were half successful in, as the bioship split aft end spiraling into deep space while the prow rammed the frigate. Dropping its shields and puncturing its armor. Bioforms would soon infest the human ship turning every hallway into a charnal field.


    The other factions didn¡¯t give them a chance. Nuclear warheads slagged the bioship into a jet of plasma that poured into the frigate melting the gooey human center. Plasma slagged the reactor and the ship vanished as a second star was created. Snuffed out by the Azhurai prism ship. One missile from them wiped out half the bioships, and their main array sliced one of the two dreadnoughts in half. Asteroid moons that carried between one and ten million crew, gone in a second. They issued a message to the remaining seven ships. As if firepower needed any commentary.


    ¡°Comply or be destroyed.¡± It read.


    A readout of the planet accompanied the message indicating the Azhurai¡¯s plans for development. They would claim two of the surface gates, both located in Eurasia, everything else was free game.


    Two Singularity frigates angled for the Americas, shadowed by the technocracy dreadnought. While the bioships angled for the southern tip of Africa.


    ¡ª


    Jim and Haime watched the battle play out, not bothering to watch after the Azhurai laid claim. Earth was going to be carved into pieces, every resource extracted from the world.


    ¡°Poor bastards.¡± Muttered Jim.


    ¡°What are the chances a damn Azhurai ship showed up? Twenty billion habitable worlds and they cold dialed this one.¡± Said Haime, shaking his head.


    ¡°Bro, time to piss off. Nameless must have tipped off their dogs. I get the Singularity and Technomancy monitoring this galactic arm for new worlds, but bioships too? Hell naw. I¡¯d rather shave my balls ten thousand times.¡± Said Jim, standing and heading for the cryotubes.


    ¡°As if you can count past ten thousand! Bah, fine, I¡¯ll get the jump engines warmed up. Take care of any cargo not worth its hold space and recycle any fatties I miss. Maybe mind wipe one or two of the sweeter things for ourselves. You know what I like.¡± Said Haime, selecting a million cryopods and sending their obese occupants into the protein recycler.


    ¡°You old perve.¡± Shouts Jim, clearing the cockpit as the ship trembles.


    Nine thuds tell of the nine portals being launched. They connect instantly to any other portal in the galaxy assuming you can supply it power. Which these particular earthlings can¡¯t. The Azhurai will fix that, force the earthlings to advance just enough to be useful slaves. Within a year they¡¯ll have fortresses built and their gates powered up.


    ¡°Sucks to suck earthlings. Sorry but you weren¡¯t gonna survive either way. Aint no way to avoid getting fed into a recycler on Syrak-9. Not unless the heavens open and xeno-Jebus saves you.¡± Says Jim, shaking his head softly before flushing a few hundred thousand morbidly obese.


    The ship would break them down into molecules, scrub them of undesirables like heavy metals, drugs both prescription and recreational, all non-human DNA ¨Cbugs or parasites¨C and then store the molecules in ready to consume bars. The fatties would never choke back another Twinky, but they would be choked back. Good riddance. A few of the women catch his eye, one has a golden ring hanging from her nipple, no tattoos though. She¡¯s not good enough for Haime.


    ¡°You and your obsession with pierced nipples.¡± Groaned Jim, already typing in commands to the ship¡¯s AI. ¡°Cycle all the skitzos to the back, rank them from least to most insane, then sort out any abnormalities.¡± He said.


    The hallway¡¯s blast doors open for him, cycling as he walks. Not paying attention as the AI sealed each door before unsealing the next, it was standard protocol aboard any ship. Just another part of life in hard vacuum. Besides, it gave him time to flush a million of the worst basketcases. Six intervening airlocks divided the freighter, preventing any one breach from killing every soul aboard. Still, the ship was cavernous, an entire city could fit inside each section on this arkship after all one trillion cryopods took up a lot of space. Jim smiled at the sleeping audience. Occupants hanging on his approval for life and death. About half of those were currently full, but that was alright. You never wanted to be at 100% capacity, then every technical fault or power hiccup would cut into your profits. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Faults detected, unable to access one hundred and four candidates,¡± Began the ship¡¯s AI, ¡°Displaying four million, eight hundred and¨C¡±


    ¡°Recycle any that have less than ninety percent compatibility with flash training.¡± Interrupted Jim, hoping to save himself some work.


    Certain mental abnormalities would prevent the flash training from taking hold, and that would result in wig outs. People who remembered their lives on earth and their time in the tubes, as well as the flash training process. Usually causing mental instability or complete nervous breakdowns, the last thing a commander wanted their troops to suffer.


    Schizophrenics were the worst. No matter how thoroughly you erased them, or how many times they underwent flash training, it was only a matter of time before they went postal on the same people who paid good money for these draftees. As a freelancer it was easy for Jim to collect a few extra people, but this haul would set a performance record for the galactic quadrant. He¡¯d HAVE to siphon a few million people off the top just to make this believable. Otherwise they¡¯d have some AI crawling up and down his throat; investigating every aspect of his cover story. Jim activated his neural link, the personal one and sent a dozen messages to interested buyers in two dozen solar systems.


    [got extra merchandise, top quality, high quantity. Need to offload quick. Discounts for purchases exceeding a million units.]


    Jim Sent the message, smiling as buyers lined up. With the numbers they were offering him, the feds wouldn¡¯t be able to touch him. Hell, two crazy aliens were offering him planets!


    He laughed. Hooting with joy for long minutes before returning to his work. There were millions of schizophrenics on board. All of them liabilities.


    ¡°Aw hell, revise ninety percent compatibility with ninety five percent. Loop in the other harvests too. Lets deliver triple A goods and keep the wig outs to a minimum.¡± Said Jim.


    ¡°Tne million candidates fall below that threshold.¡±


    Jim pressed the button to recycle them. Seconds later a message appeared.


    [ERROR: Recycler is full.]


    ¡°Oh baby, a hold full of rations and a billion person bonus haul? Yes please, ice my birthday cake some more.¡± Said Jim, casually flushing the remaining nine million people into space. They died without ever feeling a thing. A mercy that Apollo Finley would soon come to dream of.


    The AI dutifully aimed each person on a collision course with the nearest planet, a standard practice meant to cut down on space debris. Over the next few weeks Earth would be treated to countless meteor showers as millions of their draftees returned home.


    ¡°Five minutes later the AI spoke again, ¡°All nine million vented, approximately two hundred thousand anomalies remaining. One urgent fault.¡±


    ¡°Teleport me.¡± Snapped Jim, reaching for his sidearm.


    Cool Vanadium alloy brushed against his fingers. The simplest solution to an ¡®urgent fault¡¯ was a bullet between the eyes. Energy weapons like beamers or lasers or phasers were more effective, but this was a ship. Frangible slugs were safer, poking less holes in things you didn¡¯t want to explode. Like the outer hull or your cargo. Loose crazies aboard a spaceship could get them all killed. Blue light flashed once, fading as he appeared in front of a man¡¯s tube. He jerked in surprise at the arrival, feet kicking as he aimed some kind of pistol at Jim. Security shielding blinked into life, surrounding Jim and the man frowned.


    ¡°Is that weapon dangerous?¡± Asked Jim.


    ¡°Slug based, self contained chemical propellant, with expanding ammunition. Only effective against unshielded soft targets. No ability to penetrate cryotube.¡± Said the AI. Jim let out a whoosh of air. Reupholstering his own pistol.


    He glanced up and down the corridor, seeing everyone else asleep in their tubes, including a thicc woman, curled into a ball, arms covering double Ds. Attractive, but not Jim¡¯s type, nor was she Haime¡¯s. That pervert spent too much time in simulations, nowadays the only thing that could provide suitable stimulation came from impossible amalgamations. Things nothing other than a robot could provide.


    ¡°Ha, after this payday, maybe I¡¯ll buy the jackass a few catgirlbots. At least then he¡¯ll leave the merchandise alone.¡± Jim laughed, jabbing a finger at the man¡¯s nameplate.


    ¡°Apollo Finley¡± appeared on it.


    His barrel poked the readout, opening a communication link into the cryotube.


    ¡®Suitability with flash training, 500% match.¡¯ It read.


    ¡°Five hundred? What the hell? Felicia! Run some diagnostics! Aint no way. What kind of cyber crack are you smoking¨C Ah, the brain scanner fell off.¡± Jim said, fear turning to humor as he realized the tube was suggesting cryogel was the perfect match for flash training.


    ¡°As if. Ha, we¡¯d clone people if that worked. Hey! Apollo Finley, put that crown on or I¡¯m gonna flush you into deep space. You¡¯ll freeze to death mighty fast, but it¡¯ll be a painful few seconds. Bad way to go. Helmet on.¡±


    His eyes shot wide, mouth opening as words were translated. Jim rolled his eyes, ignoring Apollo¡¯s sudden wet screaming. Classic hysteria. He held up three fingers, counting down.


    ¡°Flushing in three, two¨C¡±


    Apollo scrambled, hands grasping in the viscous fluid for the neurallink. It slid onto his bald head, soon inserting itself into the brainstem and linking Felicia, the onboard AI directly with his consciousness.


    ¡°Anomaly, compatibility rising to three thousand percent.¡±


    ¡°Link in cryotubes until compatibility equalizes!¡± Snapped Jim, his mind working as he leered at the readouts.


    Three thousand percent was impossible for a baseline human. Usually indicating some kind of trauma induced schizophrenia event. Or some abnormality. Except there was a one in a million chance that kept him anchored, staying his itching fingers from disposing of Apollo. Two cryopods added their onboard processing forming a three way linkage. Compatibility lowered to 1000%. A near perfect specimen. Young, intelligent but not cynical, cooperative yet independent, that left two remaining questions. Jim¡¯s tongue ran over his lips, working the spit around his mouth.


    ¡°Analyze ESP potential.¡± He whispered.

 Chapter 4 Greed Tunnel

    Greed tunneled his vision. Anomalies like this are why he didn¡¯t automate the flushing. Sure, it was a waste of time 99% of the time, but that last percent made all the work worthwhile. Felicia, the ship¡¯s onboard AI was more than capable of sorting fringe cases. Instead he did it, hunting for jackpots. His eyes flicked towards his second tablet, the one Felicia was programmed to ignore. Took six months to sneak it by her, had to use a neural shunt in her mainframe, time for it to pay off that investment. Six beings were already starting a bidding for any ¡®gifted¡¯ minds. Xenos who would pay anything for a compatible driver- probably incels who choked out their fuktoy and put the braindead body on ice, except one of the high bidders was a race Jim couldn¡¯t turn down. He swallowed, wondering how a member of the nameless caste had found him. They didn¡¯t deal with the Singularity at all.


    Shit. Guess you¡¯ll be their problem. Aint my business. Thought Jim.


    The nameless caste was the most technologically advanced race in the known universe, ancient beyond comprehension and the undisputed masters of the galaxy. So advanced they even held part or all of the nearby galaxies as well. If they asked for something, you served it up on a golden platter. Supposedly they were the second species to evolve in the galaxy and were immortal. More importantly they only interacted with their direct client species like the Azhurai conglomerate, another long lived race that did their bidding.


    ¡°ESP compatible. Chance of self activating, 10%. Chance of reaching useful thresholds with unlimited resources, unlikely. Recommendation, clone specimen and use to inseminate a higher potential psionic. Or cross pollinate with high order psionic xenos.¡± Said Felicia, speaking through his implants.


    He shot a message to the Exec Kaalra of the nameless. Sending the raw scans. If the nameless wanted this ¡®Apollo Finley¡¯ then no payday would save Jim. The response was immediate and decisive.


    ¡°Bummer¡­ I¡¯ll have to settle for buying my own planet.¡± Whispered Jim, doing a victory shimmy with tablet in one hand and pistol in the other.


    Apollo raised his eyebrow, confused why a man was dancing. Really hoping it wasn¡¯t some kind of alien mating ritual. He looked human, but was beyond psychopathy.


    ¡°Oh, ahem, you¡¯re an odd one. Each cull there are a few tall poppies.¡± Jim cleared his throat, holstering the pistol. ¡°What would you do to survive?¡±


    The question was direct, and not intended to be lewd, but it was difficult for Apollo to take it any other way when half naked and imprisoned in goo. Hell, he was practically pre-lubed at this point. A thought the AI translated into words after directly scanning his mind.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t even bang my girlfriend. But I would do anything. Maybe even take that pistol after.¡±


    Jim jerked back, surprised and blushing a bit. ¡°Ah, uhm, not what I meant¡­ Would you kill to survive?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never killed anyone. So¡­ Maybe, I might try if I thought I could succeed.¡± Said the AI, once more pulling from Apollo¡¯s brain.


    He wanted to scream, to rip the neural worm out of his mind, or take the FNX and blast the thing off his skull. But his hand wouldn¡¯t answer his call, no part of his body would. Some kind of neural poison was keeping him locked in place.


    ¡°Please let me live. Don¡¯t hurt me, don¡¯t make me kill anyone-¡±


    Jim tapped a button, muting the thought to speech system.


    ¡°Whiney bitch.¡±


    He spent the next twelve hours running analysis and diagnostics on Apollo, thoroughly mapping every millimeter of his synapses. He didn¡¯t stop there, nor did Felicia who categorized each and every mole on Apollo¡¯s body. Even going so far as to transfer him to other cryotubes and repeating the tests. Jim laughed. Always smiling a little more as he repeated one word. As if it was an incantation that would bestow eternal life and bottomless wealth.


    Apollo hated the word, and hated being called a ¡®chimera¡¯. Ick, it even sounded mashed together. Like moldy milk squished into sprouting potatoes, vile and poisonous.


    Jim never muted the external speakers, soon letting slip details he would rather not have known.


    ¡°Twelve half siblings,


    different mothers,


    dang, dad likes to get busy.


    Bummer, none have similar traits. Must be from mom¡¯s side. Aw shit, we left the mother on earth cause she¡¯s pregnant. Damn.¡± He tapped his tablets, cursing about leaving the system.


    Mom survived. She was safe¡­ With Apollo¡¯s little sibling. It would have been nice to be a big brother. Weird to be in college with a new sibling, but kinda neat too.


    Besides those twin nuggets of hope, Apollo hated everything, from the gooey armpits and bellybutton to the portly technician, and especially the wires crawling through his brain, occasionally poking a nerve and sending an involuntary spasm through his muscles.


    This is the worst possible way to have someone inside me.


    Thoughts of sex sent him into despair. Dad was a cheater. Not just any cheater, but a serial impregnator. Twelve siblings? TWELVE? Everyone in his life was a god damned perverted bastard. Baz¡¯s humiliation fetish, Whorely¡¯s whoreness, dad¡¯s manipulation¡­ This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Dad wasn¡¯t just ¡®dad¡¯ he was ¡®Father Finley¡¯, a bishop of their church-


    It all clicked. The late nights he spent at church, ¡®offering comfort¡¯ or ¡®council¡¯ to the women in his flock. Why the church was mostly women, a solid ratio of seven women for every three men. More than two to one¡­ But all the women had kids. Calling each other brother and sister suddenly took on a new, less altruistic, meaning.


    Mother¡¯s inexplicable tears suddenly connected with Apollo¡¯s heart. Every night she knew where her husband was, with his very own version of Whorely. Crap taste in romantic partners might just be genetic.


    Apollo scowled at that. Remembering how Mom cried herself to sleep while dad was out late ¡®stuck at church¡¯. More like stuck in a ho. The affairs had been going on for decades. How did Apollo not know?


    Was I raised in a church? Or a cult? Thought Apollo.


    He had no time to process, Jim tapped on the panel, unmuting Apollo¡¯s mind.


    ¡°Would you kill your father?¡±


    ¡°Ew, what? You dump all this on me and demand answers?! Go ride a broomstick. The pointy end.¡± Says Felicia, reading the thoughts out loud.


    Jim gets the message and chuckles. ¡°Gun to your head, would you kill your father to survive? Answer carefully, it¡¯s the difference between death and getting spun down into genetic material for artificial insemination. Machines automate the process, you¡¯ll never taste anything other than a plastic tube, or feel your legs.¡±


    I look at him, mouth falling open in horror. I¡¯m a virgin, what the hell is he even talking about? Yeah right¡­ Why was he so specific? But the AI reads my mind faster than thought.


    ¡°Extrapolation, yes and no. In such a scenario where I had a gun to my head and a gun to my father¡¯s head, I would ask him the question-¡± The program shifted pitch to speak with Apollo¡¯s voice, ¡°Dad, they say I''ll die if I don¡¯t shoot you, what should I do? Then if he answers I should save myself, I couldn¡¯t kill him. But liars can¡¯t put anyone ahead of themselves. So I would pull the trigger.¡±


    A long low whistle escapes Jim¡¯s lips.


    ¡°Good answer. Aight. I¡¯m going to make you a deal. One you¡¯ll accept. A very powerful man wants your mind and he is paying for it. Goes by the name of Exec Kaalra. Whatever he wants, you¡¯ll give him and thank him for the privilege to serve. Now go to sleep. The flash conditioning will be a bit painful if you can¡¯t sleep through it.¡± He pauses, pulling a black chunk out of his spacesuit pressing it against the glass and twists, blue light blinks around us. All the lights go out. My pod is suddenly dark. A total void where nothing, not even the light of the adjacent tubes can enter mine.


    ¡°Listen here. Felicia can¡¯t hear us right now. I¡¯m going to sell you under the table. Go along with it and I¡¯ll make sure your mom knows you¡¯re safe. Fight me, and I¡¯ll drop a rock on her. Parting out pregnant ladies is messy, but profitable. Work with me here, give me every reason to keep her alive. Earth¡¯s in the shit, but the singularity took over your continent. One message to the higher ups and I¡¯ll have your whole family marked as psychically intriguing. Potentially as military assets. That¡¯ll keep em safe. Felicia¡¯s already made arrangements, if you cooperate, then you¡¯ll end up in three separate bodies. Tell no one about that. Chimeras are outlawed, if Kaalra finds out he¡¯ll murder you and your whole family, half siblings too. Then push Earth into the sun to be sure. Nameless don¡¯t know what a half measure is.¡±


    Fear illuminated Jim¡¯s eyes, as if his words scared himself. ¡°Apollo, man, I¡¯m begging you, don¡¯t fuck with the nameless caste. All that bullshit about becoming farmers and generals of the singularity? Aint gonna happen. Except for a few dozen fringe cases like you.¡±


    He placed the second tablet against the cryotube, pressing buttons that sent a dataspike into Apollo¡¯s cortex. Directly downloading information about the modern galaxy. Tactical and strategic assessments on how Earth was going to be flayed, strip mined, and raped for the next century. Unless the Singularity took Syrak-9. They had five years to take the game world. Called game because the nameless caste demanded their vassal states send a legion to fight and die on it each year. Earth wasn¡¯t being drafted, they were being sacrificed, fed into a meatgrinder.


    ¡°Aint pretty. But you¡± Jim jabbed a finger at my chest, ¡°can win Apollo Finley. Find a way. I¡¯ll keep your mother safe, buy her a nice guardian AI. State of the art with a cold fusion reactor and hidden plasma cannons. She¡¯ll never want for anything. A bot like that can do more than the dishes, just think about it, having one of the most intelligent beings in all of creation guide her through the galaxy. Do we have a deal?¡± He whispered.


    I want to accept, but the neural interface speaks for me. ¡°Flash training will lobotomize me. How can I keep a promise?¡±


    Jim snorts. ¡°Flashtraining will wear off a cracked-head like yours. Accept it for a few days. Don¡¯t fight it, the machines push harder if you resist so fighting it will cause brain damage. Bad idea. Besides, there¡¯s no need, you¡¯ll eventually break it naturally. When you come to, do NOT talk to the doctors. Continue playing your role. Be the person you are paid to be.¡±


    I weigh the odds quickly. Making the right decision on the drop of a dime is a skill of mine. Maybe I acquired it playing endless tournaments of 1v1 Starcraft. A talent that serves me well here. Jim has no incentive to help me, but there are no better alternatives. I can only gain. If he does give mom a guardian AI, she¡¯ll eventually figure it out, and force it to find me, something I can facilitate by agreeing.


    ¡°Make the AI look like me. Otherwise she¡¯ll never be satisfied. I¡¯m the only one she can really trust, just look at dad¡­¡±


    Jim laughs. ¡°Ah, your old man is a piece of work! Guess that¡¯s fair. You¡¯re allowing me to retire, so I can at least give the same to your mom. Hell, I¡¯ll even clone your cells so she¡¯s really talking to you. Now, keep this secret. I¡¯m just doing my job. We never met, we never spoke, and your mom will be safe for the rest of her life. Which will be extended, I wasn¡¯t lying about the Singularity, we dropped off the gates. Entrepreneurs will probably dial Earth in a few months and start selling goodies at a hundred times the market value. But your mom will get the finest nanotech once I get paid. Gotta keep my word. Nanotech will clear out most diseases and ninety percent of aging related issues. Your mom will probably live past two hundred years old.¡± He says.


    I hope he¡¯s not lying through that smile. Not like I can pick out a liar, not after Whorely and Bazzhole. Or dad¡­ Was he the embezzler this whole time? I shudder.


    Jim yanks the artefact free, lights return suddenly, and Jim taps the panel a few times, jets of liquid shoot into my tube, coloring the cryogel blue. The last thing I see before my eyes close. I never comprehend what Felicia and Jim do to my mind, nor why they needed multiple cryotubes to sync my brain.


    >Defragmentation completed.


    >Neural nodes networked.


    >Hive mind accepted.


    >Flashtraining commencing¡­

 Chapter 5 Allies or Enemies? and Split Minds

    My new life flashed before my eyes, weapons instructions, a decade of twenty mile hikes that end in live fire drills, constant wargames, simunition -a sort of non lethal projectile- games that last months on end. Trench warfare with and without live artillery support. Accidents took their toll, some gave up and were euthanized by our instructors. Singularity conscripts obeyed or died. All told, we started with a thousand of us ¡®clones¡¯ and by the end one hundred and five of us remained. Veterans of war before we ever set foot on the battlefield. I knew it was all a dream, a product of the cryotube¡¯s flash training. But I was no longer the pilot of my own body. It moved and obeyed the whims of Sable Yurten. My new identity.


    I am Sable Yurten, elite conscript of the Holy Singularity.


    Our body is teleported once more, this time to a holding area. The cryotubes here are identical, aligned in a hexagonal shape that matches the room we now call home. Only my eyes are open. All others are still asleep, including Sable Yurten.


    Cryotubes line the walls, ceiling, and floor, allowing six rows of human beings to be crammed into the tunnel. Our bodies float in gel under reduced gravity, at peace. Except for me. My heart slows, often stopping for seconds at a time. I never sleep. No, 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 eyes.


    Through the glass I see a familiar woman. Attractive despite her shaved head. Light glistens off her pleasantly round dome, so similar to how she looked when we both 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 had front row seats to each other. I wonder where old Dr. Abrahms is now. Maybe still in the lecture hall standing at the center of the semicircular room. 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! Medics are not your friend¨C


    ¨CIt''s too late. One of the proctors has stepped behind her. Pistol exits holster. An energy weapon that creates a tiny ball of plasma no larger than your pinky nail. Precise, there won¡¯t be any overpenetration. Sable¡¯s seen it before. Highly effective against soft targets. Bordering on useless in a fight against the Technocracy who favors heavy cyborgs and vehicles. 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 in my tube. Sable¡¯s false memories guide my eye as the recruits cloth themselves. The ritual is strange really, there are hundreds of us within this corridor, yet only twelve are ever awoken. Without guns or bayonets 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 til I realize why. Each of the twelve is a flash trained human that follows a pattern, the first 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. 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. Our drafters were thorough and have tailored every detail of our flash trainings to individuals. Yet always repeating certain patterns. Which is when I notice number eleven.


    Buff, at least six feet tall, otherwise painfully average really in both muscle 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 genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    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. Shit, I¡¯m still wearing pants¡­ and my FNX.


    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 all the gasmasks and flashtraining we¡¯re still human. Facing someone when we talk is a deeply ingrained habit. Not even helmet integrated radios can defy human nature.


    The nearest proctor points to me, and the other shrugs, counting pods. They¡¯re doing the wall opposite me, I''m situated near the back of the room if they continue their rotation and start at the front of my aisle then I have hours before they¡¯ll reach me. Two more squads are activated, clothed and sent to war. No guns are dispensed. Probably an anti wig-out measure. Which is when they turned around, and started opening my squad. Easier to start at the end and work their way back to front. Our cryotubes hiss open, glass parting along invisible seams. It¡¯s probably not glass at all, but I¡¯m no material engineer. Not yet at least. Most my comrades are slow to wake, allowing the proctors to open twenty four capsules at once, so one squad may arm while the other rises from the coma. I feign sleep, until the flash training rears its ugly conditioning. My body moves without instructions, I extend a hand out of the goo, and the proctors take hold of me, pulling my naked ass out. A surprisingly clean affair. In the low gravity the goo remains in the pod, somehow adhering tighter to the steel tube than my hairless body, which slurps out of the cryogel entirely clean. A quick examination shows that my eyelashes and eyebrows are gone. Creepy. Not that anyone will see under my helmet.


    More disturbingly, no one comments on my pants or pistol. Including my alter ego. Though the ring, spare magazines and pistol are removed and placed in a combat belt designed to carry similar weapons. Humans, be they neanderthal or star citizen, all have five fingers. A million years of evolution has done nothing to alter the most comfortable way to carry a pistol. My body dons the wargear, helmet, 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. It really clings to the boys, suctioning them to my taint, and I feel stupid having to slide boxers over the suit. But it¡¯s a regulated uniform so I comply, shirt, pants, body armor for the chest, outer trousers, overjacket, gloves, boots, and the whole mess is then sealed. Like a fremen stillsuit, except meant to keep out radiation instead of keeping us in water. We¡¯ll sweat worse than boiled pigs in these, but we won¡¯t die of cancer. A tradeoff that might be meaningless. Jim¡¯s download warns me of Syrak-9, an irradiated hellscape for half the planet, 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. Those are off limits to all soldiers as the local population.


    While the other half of the planet is a forest world, engineered plants scrub the atmosphere, and cities that would be more at home in the forests of LothLorien than in space rise thousands of meters into the air. 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.


    Of a thousand candidates only one hundred and five remain.


    I watch as my body moves, in control of nothing.


    This is going to be a problem! I think, watching as my body jogs out of the tuberoom and into some kind of open staging area. Steel walls rise a hundred feet into the air and probably far deeper below, catwalks run from our hexagonal cryotube rooms across empty space towards a glowing portal. Some kind of instant teleportation gate. To my Earthling brain it looks like one of those old stargates, the ones from the series a twenty year old was played by a gray haired badass. Captain Kirk he was not, but the series was fun. Maybe it was the psi op it always joked about being, preparing us for the day our world was culled. Come to think of it, the Goa''uld even used the same terminology. Creepy. I keep pace with the squad. Each catwalk passes in front of a floating disk where a dozen officers watch us, several aids move to and fro, giving reports and keeping the logistical war machine running. I¡¯m impressed. Four billion recruits have been drafted, mind wiped, flash trained, and moved across multiple 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. 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 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¡­¡±


    That¡¯s all we hear before our turn comes. An officer points to us, number one knows the order and marches into the gate.


    ¡°Your weapons will be on the other side.¡± Says the officer.

 Chapter 6 Lost Trust

    My squad trusts him, I trust him. He has no reason to lie. Through the gate we go bodies converting to energy and back to matter before we know what¡¯s happened. The inhospitable climate beyond is imperceptible through our heavy clothes. What is perceptible however, is the muddy trenches and bodies. We¡¯re surrounded by a score of corpses, mostly laying in tattered shreds, as if an uncountable number of conscripts were fed into a wood chipper. This is not an armory. Nor any kind of staging ground.


    Memories rise, how most of the thousand recruits died replays in my mind. Friendly fire incidents, when artillery shells encountered a strong headwind and fell short, onto our positions. A lottery that no skill or action on your part could influence. It simply came down to getting lucky.


    Today, we did not get lucky.


    Shadows scatter around us, more than I can count. One sprints towards us, tackling seven. I see gills, claws, and bulging eyes. As if this creature is a deep sea fish in too low a pressure. As conscripts we only wear armor over our chests and a helmet to protect our vitals. The logic being those are places where a fight ending injury can occur the easiest, but they missed a spot. Our necks. The thing, whatever it is, clamps down on seven¡¯s neck. Inch long fangs pierce her coat, radiation liner, and flesh. Before I can think the FNX is in my hand, safety off. I¡¯m running. One finger taps the loaded chamber indicator telling me the weapon is fully loaded. I only need to pull the trigger.


    Four squadmates join the melee, yanking the creature off its four feet. A knife appears, straight edged but with an S curved handle, not made for human hands. Flash training has turned these flabby Americans into hardened warriors. Each hand or foot is bent backwards leveraging digits until the creature is a shattered mess. A fifth squadmate grabs the knife plunging into the creature''s eye. Spasms run through the piranha like humanoid. Jaw clenches shut, severing Seven¡¯s spine.


    ¡°No!¡± Shouts someone, I never learn who.


    Drawing the pistol only took a half second, but that¡¯s all the time it takes to end the fight. Nine people are clustered around the two bodies knee deep in violence. The perfect target for any smart artillery.


    ¡°We¡¯re clustered, spread¨C¡± Begins one.


    Artillery vaporizes number one. Direct hit. A high explosive shell crushes the man, plowing six feet into muddy trench before the proximity fuse understands it hit something. Fire annihilates most of the squad, only tearing me in half. Being second to last has its perks.


    Ouch. I hope Jim honors the deal. Help mom. I just wish, I wish I could have mattered. Done more¡­


    Memories remind me that Mom gets nothing if we don¡¯t win these wargames. We must take the planet. The pressure wave knocks me unconscious before I can feel pain, killing Sable Yurten.


    ¡ª


    >Straingineer Zazathur: OW! WHAT THE HELL! WARN ME


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Wasn¡¯t me. I¡¯m safe on this Azhurai ship. Tiny quarters though.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: I felt it too. Like getting cut in half. We must have a third


    >Straingineer Zazathur: had a third. feels like we are gonna die.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: There is time. have location, sending my medkit only have one.


    A moment passed between messages. Information returning to the Azhurai Conglomerate warship.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Extensive damage. Bots need biomass to plug these holes.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: shit


    >Straingineer Zazathur: die now or tomorrow


    >Praetorian Panoptes: I don¡¯t want to die¡­


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Oh man, this is gonna hurt¡­ take my legs. side legs. I can regrow them.


    ¡ª


    Sable Yurten died. As people tend to do when they are killed.


    Her veneer of lies stripped away by unfriendly fire¨C


    ¨CAnd the bastard left me holding the bag. I became aware slowly, light coming back into my pupils. Legs tingle for several minutes as feeling returns, coming in a distinct wave that starts near my ribs and ripples down, through my pelvis, over my hips, past my groin -I breathe easier, knowing i¡¯m intact-, into knees, calves, feet, and finally my toes. They¡¯re weirdly cold, I look down and find blue arcs of light crawling over my ¨Conce again¨C naked lower half. Weird, how did my toenails get painted black? Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    I shake the distraction, more annoyed at an emergent pattern, one I am already fed up with! What philandering whore leaves a man naked in the trenches? The blue sparks tickle my inner thigh creeping entirely too close to my bits.


    ¡°NOPE!¡± I swat them away, or try to.


    Fingers touch sparks and I get gently tased. Like licking a nine volt battery if you mixed the sensation with spicy shaving cream, thick, painfully tingly and now all over my freaking hands! I throw myself sideways, kicking and flailing until my sparkly hands land on the severed torso of twelve. Sparks leap from me to her, encircling her upper half and arcing to her legs, she was cut in half like me, not vaporized like number one. In a sort of negative flash the sparkles and body vanish. One moment they are present, the next I receive a mental alert, so similar to Jim and Haime¡¯s draft notice.


    [+1 biomass]


    ¡°What the hel¨C¡±


    Before I can finish the thought, text appears in my mind, so similar to the chat function in Wings of Liberty, a game I once played. It''s been years since I¡¯ve seen that style of text, mainly because I have the chat function muted. Nothing is left there except friends who haven¡¯t logged on in three years and edgy politics. Not here. Two people have been having a conversation for what looks like hours. As if they existed while I was still in my cryotube, before Jim ran his tests.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: tasty. like radioactive pork thats oversalted and undercooked. wait¡­ this doesnt taste like the biopools. its not my biomass.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Wasn¡¯t me.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Is our other half alive?


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Can you have three halves? Hey! Apollo Finley, say hello! You know which buttons to press.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: dna is a double helix so this is human. asshole, you sent me human biomass?


    ¡°This can¡¯t be real¡­¡± I begin to say, coming up short.


    My voice trails off as I stare at my toes, whatever is making the toenails dark isn¡¯t polish. A permanent fashion statement that will forever ruin my favorite flip flops. Yet, I have larger concerns, my legs are no longer the same, already showing more muscle and less fat, although that might just be the perfect shave. I run my fingers over them, glass has more friction than these sexy bitches. I¡¯m dazed. So much has occurred I need a moment.


    My mouth works out my thoughts.


    ¡°In the past day I was cheated on, conscripted into a galactic military, cloned or something, transported across planets, and implanted with the memories of an entire life. Blown in half and rebuilt by¡­ something indistinguishable from magic. This really isn¡¯t all that strange.¡± I say aloud, scrambling into the pants left behind by number twelve.


    Hey, I don¡¯t like graverobbing at all, but I ain''t running around a planet without pants on! Besides, twelve¡¯s body is gone, no blood or viscera remains, leaving guilt free pants behind. Boots too. Ambient radiation will give me cancer inside of an hour, best armor up. Somehow my pistol survived along with one magazine and the ring. A small miracle.


    I will make it home. Then I¡¯m going to get that 30 day money back guarantee. I swear to myself.


    This war feels so lost, hopeless even. Fifteen seconds is how quickly my entire squad survived, from the first man through the gate to the last casualty. Why they sent humans here and not sealed tanks and mechs is a strategic error I struggle to comprehend.


    So stupid.


    Earth has tanks!


    Jim said those were taken, so why not use them?


    Through my helmet I hear whistling. More artillery. I can still recall the sensation of being blown in half. Panic ignites my feet. I duck and run, sprinting through the muddy trenches in search of safety or cover. There¡¯s none. Someone built this trench to be a highway. Thirty feet deep with logs and metal grating to line them. A sort of reinforcement that limits how deep your average fatass would sink into the mud, a Technomancy tactic so their war machines can keep on warring without getting stuck. Useless in keeping an infantryman¡¯s boots dry. I¡¯m exposed here. Dirt trenching alone isn¡¯t enough to protect from bombardment, standard singularity training says bunkers should be placed every quarter mile at a minimum. While the Technomancy standard is a mile or two. A shell lands in front of me, burying itself in the wet dirt before exploding. Dirt rises in a split second, sending a concussion wave that kicks me in the face. My helmet takes the brunt, and I''m grateful for the integrated gas mask. Quality gear, built to function after a direct hit. Which I¡¯ve taken two of. Together they manage to keep my head intact as the wind forcibly exits my lungs, ears pop. Silence follows. Were it not for the twin glass circles my eyes would be gone as well. Concussed. I lay in the mud for several seconds, wheezing as my entire body reels in pain. Like I¡¯ve been tenderized by a dozen Rock Johnsons. Or a dildo factory, but I repeat myself.


    No one comes to save me, there are no weapons here, only the odd chat window. I sprint down the trench hoping to find a bunker where I can get my bearings and link up with Singularity forces. Praetorian Panoptes is right, I know the buttons. The window isn¡¯t really a window, it''s a borderless square in the bottom right hand corner of my vision.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Ouch! Please don¡¯t die, Earth needs you. Mom needs you. Can¡¯t heal you again.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: I¡¯ll kill you if you die! Stay alive! Hide in a hole if you have to!!!!!!


    Mentally I press enter, flicking my pinky to open chat.


    >Human Apollo: artillery strike. I¡¯m alive. ouch.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: what the hell¡­ HUMAN?


    >Straingineer Zazathur: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Ignore him. He¡¯s¡­ uh¡­ I don¡¯t know how to say this, not human anymore? Kinda like a tyranid but maybe more zergy, but don¡¯t worry about that.


    >Human Apollo: Is that why my toenails are black? Did you make me half zergy?


    >Straingineer Zazathur: HA! serves you right.

 Chapter 7 Pain

    Pain rakes my body. Fire running through my being. Bones must be broken due to the shockwaves. I can still feel aftershocks. No, that makes no sense. Earthquakes have aftershocks not artillery shells¨C


    ¨CWhich means the shaking is more shells. Someone is shelling the trench, peppering it with dumb artillery shells after a smart shell killed a whole squad. I need to get under cover. Flash training drives me onwards, clawing my feet back and forcing me down the trench, limping on my left foot, must have twisted it. Zerg are tough, guess I¡¯m still human. Like my name. I really dislike that moniker but chewing the fat in chat comes after running for your life.


    >Human Apollo: I¡¯m alone, in a trench war with terminators. Fuck this shit. Teleport out? Give me a shield? Or a gun? These jackoffs didn¡¯t even give me a combat shovel!


    A moment passes, the only feedback being the metal mesh beneath my half tied boots. One glance at the walls tells a story of wood stacked below layers of steel mesh and additional wood supports. This trench is old, with a lasagna of fortifications layered atop each other. Humans have been fighting over this trench for centuries, with a couple of odd layers marking times when secondary antagonists swept the field. Judging by the heavy treadmarks pressed into the mud I guess this is Technomancy territory. That checks out with the flash training, as trenches this wide are hard to defend with infantry and light vehicles. Standard policy for Singularity trenches is tight and narrow ten feet at most, we only use infantry and all terrain equipment, mud doesn¡¯t stop us. I pray no artillery shells are whistling my way, but I''m deaf. Not like I can do anything if I hear the shells coming. In a way, that¡¯s relaxing.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: I have teleportation access but not for us three. Already tried it. Can¡¯t¡­ But man¡­ I¡¯m looking at Earth. They already hit the cities, all teleports are logged during combat. Can¡¯t give you weapons.


    >Human Apollo: WHY NOT?!?


    >Praetorian Panoptes: No weapons to send. I might be locked out. Besides¡­ We¡¯re no longer human. These names weren¡¯t picked by us. Matriarch can¡¯t give you her weapons, and mine are all coded to uhm. My uhm, brainwaves or DNA or something.


    >Human Apollo: I¡¯m going to die if you don¡¯t help me.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Survive bitch.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Hey, send me more biomass and i can engineer some bioforms. hive ship is organic so i can send and receive a bit without being noticed. takes time. but I¡¯m safe. sorta.


    ¡°AAAAAHHH! What do you expect me to do? Hide in a hole and poop bodies?¡± I shout, the sound muffled by my gasmask.


    A bend in the trench slows me, apprehension about turning the corner, until I realize I''m gonna be lucky or dead, and walk forward like I''m the limping bombed out King of Trenchlandia. I glance back at the pile of comrades, just in time to see dozens of electric pink iguanas jump into the trench. Tulverians, aliens with laser rifles and blast armor over half their otherwise exposed scales. I jog forward, ankle bringing tears to my eyes as pain sledgehammers my leg. Around the bend I run, hoping the crocodilianoids are sated by eating other earthlings. On second thought, I hope we taste like shit. The last thing I need is iguanas thinking I''m a snack. The trench in front of me lies empty, except for the very thing I¡¯ve been looking for. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    A black maw, the entrance to an underground bunker. Twenty feet wide and nearly thirty feet tall the orifice dares me to advance. Such an entrance is never constructed by Singularity forces, it¡¯s too exposed. Any half-competent rocketeer could drop a nuke through this gaping hole from ten clicks away. At night! Of all alien races Jim informed me of, only heavy warmachines like Technocracy Juggernauts would need this.


    I cup my ears, forgetting that I''m deaf. Mud trembles as shells land above the trench, my options here suck.


    ¡°Get lucky or die.¡± I say, jogging along the trench wall to the bunker¡¯s mouth.


    I pass an exit ramp, a place in the trench wall that¡¯s been bulldozed so tanks can enter and exit. On a whim I jog up it, hoping to find cover in the contested land outside the trenches rather than run into a bunker and pray no one is inside.  There is an old saying back on Earth. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. No sooner have I stuck my head above the ramp than twelve Juggernauts rise above their own trenches trailing black smoke as they launch hundreds of missiles. A volley so comprehensive that white chemtrails blot out the sun. Energy batteries whine and fire, detonating dozens of missiles. A futile waste of power. Thousands of the missile fleet strike home sending a shockwave that even my deaf ears can register. Twelve Juggernauts is an armored division, Singularity protocol states we should call in an orbital bombardment or sacrifice ten thousand infantrymen to clog up their treads. They call that a ¡®mobility kill¡¯, since the tank will be a sitting duck until space assets or special anti-armor weapons can be brought to bear. Real guns.


    I NEED to hide, turning to limp down the ramp, reaching the bottom simultaneously with three Tulverians. Mouths stained red. Laser rifles armed, charged, and at the ready. The lead one sees me, skull crest rising, gun aiming at my chest, mouth opening to¨C


    -He blinks. Eyes shifting towards the bunker.


    I feel the rumble more than hear it. Thudding into my chest like a massage chair dialed up to ¡®beat them silly with hammers then ask for a big tip¡¯. Thousands of slugs rupture the trio, turning them into pink mist before I can blink. One second they are there, the next they aren¡¯t.


    ¡°Cute magic trick.¡± I mutter, smiling darkly.


    My brain registers the response as abnormal. But I ignore it, wondering how much blood I lost today. Adrenaline should be spiking now, but my glands seem to be empty. Exhaustion hits. I slump against the trench wall, sitting down.


    A Juggernaut, three stories of gun barrels, sensors, and armor plating rolls into view, turning away from me and rolling up the far ramp. A dozen autocannons aim at me, tracking as the juggernaut rises above the trench¡¯s lip. For some inexplicable reason it doesn¡¯t fire. Maybe because I¡¯m no threat to it. But Sable¡¯s seen Juggernauts fire their guns just to feel recoil, some vestigial reflex from its human pilot. There is only one, located at center mass. Five feet above the solarium reactor. So maybe this one is out of bullets? It''s an autocannon type, armed with scores of individual guns all pulling from individual magazines. Either way, it turns to join the other twelve Juggernaughts, firing a handful of missiles to support their advance.


    I¡¯m left there. Alone. Waiting for the end. Until Alaea¡¯s words reach me. We can¡¯t die here. Earth is going to be raped unless we win. They took four billion of us. If only one in thirty of us survive, we¡¯ll still have enough to drown thousands of Juggernauts under our bodies. It¡¯s time to win. Not bitch out and F10 + S.


    Cold logic knows I¡¯m not firing on all cylinders so it analogizes life with Starcraft 2. This is a damn cannon rush and I¡¯m an itty bitty SCV, But unlike in the game, I can armor up and become a Warhound. Before I can talk sense into my ramblings feet carry me into the bunker, jumping over wires left near the entrance. Nightvision activates automatically, illuminating the bunker¡¯s interior with twin green beams.


    ¡°Nightvision, dial to minimum.¡±

 Chapter 8 Into the breach

    The eye beams dim to wire thick beams, almost nothing, still too much light. A Juggernaut has sensor suites, and their technicians are infamous for replacing organic eyeballs with wider spectrum scanners. I may as well be driving through Walmart on an electric scooter with a dozen air horns blaring.


    Except today I rolled all sixes. No one is present. In fact, all lights are off and most the equipment is gone. This isn¡¯t a real bunker, just an ammo cache.


    ¡°Thank god.¡± I mutter.


    Stacks of rockets with red and yellow hazard striping on the nosecones rise into the air. High explosive warheads. Too large for a human to move or carry. Hundreds of empty crates line the walls and floor, autocannon ammo of various calibers, all empty. I quickly scrounge through the bunker, finding a flechette pistol and two thousand rounds. Which really sounds like a lot until you realize the ¡®pistol¡¯ is the size of a briefcase, not really a pistol at all. Instead it''s a miniaturized railgun that fires steel spikes -sewing needles- with fins duck taped on. Highly efficient on space and ammo, but worthless against armor. Which is probably why the Technocracy loves these pieces of shit. No disgruntled tech can damage their precious machines. But hey, it¡¯ll go bang. I won¡¯t get sodomized by the first rat who looks my way. Or the damn iguanas!


    Relief sends me into a fit of cackles, stroking the steel pistol as I close my eyes and laugh, taking a few steps towards a row of steel near the back. I¡¯m in space, talking to voices in my head, on an alien world, and I just found a railgun. This moment doesn¡¯t feel real. Cackles fill the silent bunker echoing as artillery and missiles explode across the world.


    I¡¯m one person, against an entire world of assholes. What can I do? My cracked lenses fog up.


    ¡°I need a new helmet.¡± I say aloud.


    The words return me to a normal place. Tickling the flashtraining¡¯s desire to complete my mission.


    That¡¯s right, the mission was to get a weapon and fight back. I¡¯m not alone.


    ¡°Alright. Stay alive. Find armor, find a bigger gun, kill a Juggernaut.¡± I say.


    Once again I turn towards crate mountain. In the dark it looks like a vehicle of some kind, but there are piles of gear and crates of odds and ends keeping it concealed. My foot snags on something soft, cartwheeling me face first into a pile of lukewarm fabric. Flash training did an excellent job of desensitizing me to war life, but the pile of earthlings in gasmasks sends a shiver down my spine. This isn¡¯t right. We shouldn¡¯t be here. Buuuutttt, the pile is kinda bouncy¡­ A great place for a nap. If I weren¡¯t fresh from the cryotubes.


    I know something inside me has cracked. Some ancient mechanism to prevent emotional trauma from killing me. I¡¯ll probably pay for it with a life of PTSD, but for now I open my chat log.


    >Human Apollo: I have biomass. Let me know when you¡¯re ready. Stolen story; please report.


    I stare at the words I''ve mentally typed, surprised at how easy it was. Then inhale before sending. Survive, beat back the Technocracy and save earth. Maybe then I can get laid. Simple as. Well, and maybe punch Bazzhole in the cock-er spaniel. I wonder if he was drafted too? Whorely is probably knocked up and back on earth. Ick.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Send me 100 kilos. Cant hide more in¡­ cant hide more.


    I touch the bodies, mentally tagging them for Praetorian¡¯s teleporter. It¡¯s absurdly easy on my end. I need physical contact but after that I just look at the item and mentally think ¡®mark¡¯, then they appear with a faint outline overlaid. Out of stubbornness I try to mark myself, but fail since nothing whatsoever occurs.


    The first body vanishes, then after a delay the second goes after. I hesitate a moment, but only one, before stripping them of everything, my inner and outer layers are made whole once more, as is my shattered gasmask. Then to top it off this squad was at least given weapons. One glance tells a sordid history with the sharpened shovel, red oxides coat one edge, something I hope is rust, but I know better than to try and remove it. One is holding a slender blade, something I once saw Baz call a ¡®Fairbain-sykes fighting knife¡¯ whatever that is. Beating someone to death is low on my list of desirable outcomes, but Sable Yurten is capable of the deed.


    ¡°Does flash training make you schitzo? Or just bring it out? Whatever, I need a real gun. And¡­ armor.¡± I say aloud, searching through Technomancy crates.


    Missiles and gauss rounds are what I find, all munitions for the rolling buildings they call Juggernauts. No way can I use these, even with powered armor I can¡¯t carry or launch high caliber projectiles. Outside the artillery barrage redoubles. Shells following the Juggernaut¡¯s path. One artillery hit won¡¯t knock out Juggernaut, but it could destroy enough guns to make it combat ineffective, forcing a retreat or giving infantry squads a chance to hit them with focused laser fire or anti tank warheads. A few dozen of those bad girls is enough to knock out anything unshielded.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: crap i need an immediate teleport! Eugenic Hitlerinaina is counting babies! Feck! Make one zergling and the census bureau shows up.


    I stare at the text, giggling at whatever a ¡®eugenic hitlerina¡¯ is. What a term. Almost sounds like a cranky Abathur, the geneticist from Starcraft who engineered hundreds of beneficial mutations within the zerg swarm. Though he could never quite overcome their allergy to lemon juice.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Zergling? NO. Not on my ship, we have internal defenses. Thena? Want a puppy?


    >Human Apollo: A puppyling? THAT¡¯S what you call a WARRIOR? Feck it. I don¡¯t have a choice. Send it. It¡¯ll listen to me right?


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Only one way to find out. I¡¯ll tell em to play nice.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: say something if they misbehave.


    I note how Panoptes switched from the singular to the plural there. What exactly has he been cooking?


    >Human Apollo: You bet I will.


    Two blue ripples appear in space time, almost like a protoss warp in animation, but way faster and less sparkly. Both creatures materialize in seconds. Spines run down their quadruped backs, talons digging into the bunker¡¯s floor as they scent the air. Elongated snouts full of teeth slip open. Like a wolf¡¯s maw, if said wolf had two rows of shark teeth and sabertoothed canines protruding above and below their jaw.


    ¡°Sit!¡± I say, forgetting that I''m wearing a sealed gas mask.


    No way they can hear me-


    -Both creatures sit, leaning back onto their haunches. Spinal ridges elongate slightly unsheathing four bone spikes with some kind of pressurized fluid contained within. These are anything but zerglings.

 Chapter 9 I am Zazathur

    ¨CTwenty hours before nuclear detonation-


    My first and last human memory were the same. One instant I was Apollo Finley, college student, future IRS infiltrator, and telekinetic olympian-wannabe, then Jim, the Singularity tax collector who plundered four billion people for their war machine, pressed a button and I felt no more. I could hear him talking but all sensation was gone and soon even his voice began to diminish. Volume falling until silence. I wasn¡¯t in the cryotube any longer. At least that solved my academic probation problem. So I¡¯ll call this a win.


    Hours, years, or seconds passed, with my consciousness existing in total oblivion. I would say floating but there was no sensation, no impulses. I had no desires whatsoever. Apathetic in totality. Who cared if Ashley was a cheater? I caught her and Baz, they were leeches on my life, money, time, emotions, all things were drained away by those two. Had been drained. They were gone.


    I wanted to smile, deep within the wrinkles of my brain new connections began to form leaving me with a question I could not really contemplate. Who was I? My memories were his, old corridors I re-explored as space ticked onward. Baz, Ashley, mom, dad, Savannah. They were all present. In hindsight, it was hard to miss Dad¡¯s cheating, harder still to miss the signs Baz showed. Always spending a bit too much time alone with Ashley. Always arriving at my apartment an hour before I got home.


    I sigh, hoping death would find them and I would never again have to see those four people. Savannah though, I have questions for her. Unfortunately, I¡¯ll probably die in this sensationless cryotube. It would have been nice to meet my youngest sibling, or start a family with someone I love. But that¡¯ll never happen-


    -Darkness suddenly filled my world, the sort of darkness that you see with closed eyes. Not total black because some light makes it through eyelids. Sense returns. My face starts to regain feeling, warm humid air blowing across me. Sound comes next, creatures move, some hooved, some clawed. Grunts and squawks rattle around my head until I hear Jim speaking. Jim, that damn taxman.


    ¡°There ya go, all brainwaves rising. He¡¯s coming too. Might even be awake already so be conscious of that. Oh, give him some time to adjust from a human being to¨C¡±


    There is a pause, Jim is probably gesturing towards me. ¡°Whatever you use it for will take some adjusting. Anyways, congrats on your own personal psionic. It¡¯s been a pleasure doing business with the collective.¡±


    A raspy voice answers, somehow moist and sounding bitey, as if the speaker has a mouth with too many teeth or multiple jaws. Maybe even a split jaw. I exhale, thinking how ugly such a creature would be, as my own jaw splits into four jaws. I cock my head, neck feeling more weight than it has ever supported before and feeling lighter, stronger. Something feels wrong, actually scratch that. EVERYTHING feels wrong. Taste returns, and three tongues explore my mouth, categorizing each tooth with an ¡®ouch¡¯ factor. Or approximately how deeply each of these sawblades prick my tongues.


    ¡°Ah, the last piece falls into our puzzle. Jimmy, today you may have saved the galaxy.¡± Rasps out the voice my body recognizes.


    ¡°Saved the galaxy? I appreciate the notion ma¡¯am but I¡¯m no savior riding in on a white knight. Just glad to be of service. Now if you¡¯ll excuse me, I¡¯ve got a few more drop offs to make, unless I can interest you in a hold full of biomass.¡± Says Jim.


    ¡°We haven¡¯t the ships. Nor the drop pods to convey additional biomass. Thank you Jimmy.¡± Says the bitey rasper.


    My mouth flexes, opening vertically instead of horizontally. Once more the tongues move, assessing my maw from the inside. Savannah once brought home a boy with a split tongue, said he was great at kissing but not much else. Is that what I''ve become? A good kisser? I can¡¯t feel my arms yet, but feeling is slowly creeping down my torso, I waggle my shoulders, discovering a painful narrowness. My neck is largely gone, though my face now seems nestled in an alcove. Shoulders are not a thing I possess, as arms are now directly attached to my sides.


    It seems impossible. Then the feeling reaches my ribs. My pecs aren¡¯t just reduced, they¡¯re gone. Now covered in a smooth carapace. Hands regain feeling, these aren''t human limbs, thin muscular, and once more armored with chitin. More flexible too, I reach back to explore my backside and find a dorsal crest running down my spine, skin that keeps spikes protected. Venomous spikes, to kill predators. Or large prey. In a pinch I can rip them out and use them as javelins.


    On reflex my mouth begins to water, two of my four jaws clicking in front of my face. No, they aren¡¯t jaws. I have mandibles, like an ant but sharp enough to shave and thick enough to crush power armor. I know because this body remembers tearing technomancy scientists apart, invading their world, tunneling beneath their cities and eradicating all human machines. More memories split my skull, flooding me with thoughts of who this body once was. Of the progenitor¡¯s experiments, the labs that created my former intelligence. I¡¯ve been throttled a thousand times, each incident sharpened my mind, honing the edge I will slay humanity with. Whatever those assholes were attempting to accomplish by repeated strangulation will never be known, but what they achieved is remarkable. When one is strangled to the point of unconsciousness the mind sharpens time slows as your body exerts every resource in an attempt to give you the necessary fuel to survive. I now live in that sharpened state. Perpetually firing on all cylinders. In time I will subject humans to the same experiments, moments before they become biomass for the hive¡¯s organic war machine.


    Then it hits like a wrecking ball. The mental blocks. The endless hives only push forward, we conquer, never looking behind, never seeking our creators. It bores into my consciousness like a thousand fire ants, digging long after tears of blood drip down my cheeks. I weep. Losing sensation as I once again fall into sleep.


    Hours later I awake. Though it could be minutes for all I know. Green light fills my bedroom. Except the bedroom is a green pool of bioluminescent fluid, which tastes surprisingly delicious. Slightly sweet, with just enough salt to compliment the wondrously savory chunks of meat. Texture is underrated when it comes to food. There is something uniquely satisfying about sinking two jaws into a piece of meat and sheering it. Flesh resisting just enough to know it was once a formidable foe, before fangs touch their opposites, cleaving flesh.


    I¡¯m eating my enemies.


    Was not expecting this today¡­


    My eyes finally open, exiting the pool I somehow slept in, fully submerged. Which is how I realize this body isn¡¯t remotely humanoid. More legs or arms -no way for me to differentiate between them as my legs connect to my trunk higher than the limbs with hands- than I can count propel me out of the pool, not quite centipede, but more than six. Each limb bearing four joints. More flexibility than a slinky. If you turned a black widow spider into a centipede and then somehow cross bred that with a human.


    Green liquid flows off my lower half, revealing an even greater change. My lower half is almost sluglike, a lengthy and highly stable worm covered in chitinous scales. I know from experience each scale can blunt a grenade or survive direct hits from shoulder fired railguns. Neat, though what I am is unimportant, so long as I manifest and cull the future generations. An engineer of genetic strains. This pool is both my home, bedroom, and gene foundry. I am integral to the endless hives, yet never truly one with them. Unlike the others I retain independent thought and can conceive of ideas such as our creators. Maybe I was conscripted willingly into the endless, maybe I was a unique mutation. Either way, I have a mission. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Engineering new lifeforms¡­ Well then, how hard can it be?¡± I growl, the alien mouth mauling speech.


    I close my eyes, running through the mental catalogue of hive bioforms. When Zazathur died he was working on a dozen separate projects. By and large, they¡¯re inefficient, adapted for too many unique scenarios. All bioforms have gills, even those adapted to survive volcanic worlds where temperatures exceed 200 freedom degrees. Foolishly inefficient. But Matriarchs only add genes, never removing them. Makes sense, their brains are miniscule compared to my own.


    Which extends from crown down my spine through the wormy trunk. In human terms, I¡¯m a male Lamia, or medusa with the snakes replaced by brains. A weapon I now turn to Zazathur¡¯s old projects. Bioships are weak individually, small, unshielded, and relatively slow. Yet potent due to our logistics. Ten Singularity frigates can defeat fifteen bioships without losing a single human vessel, so we need to hit them with a hundred and fifty bioships. I apply all brains to the problem, running through ten thousand bioforms for inefficient strains.


    A particularly offensive example is how we occupy gas giants with enormous gliding creatures. Sorta like a Broodlord shaped Overlord, except they breathe plasma, filtering gases through a series of lungs to refine deuterium and other fuels. Highly efficient for a biological lifeform. If you forget about the gills. Each long has an accompanying set of gills. For breathing underwater. On a planet where liquid water cannot exist.


    It¡¯s infuriating, more angering than someone burning a cross on my lawn. My whole cerebrum applies itself to the task, filtering out extraneous designs on the gliders. In an hour I cleanse the design. This biopool has all the resources I need to alter genomes, accompanied by methods to test and log the alterations. Green liquid congeals into a miniature glider, flapping through the biopool as I weave together strands of DNA, carefully excising the genetic coding for gills. Then the creature flies into an underwater tunnel for testing by the bioship herself. My thoughts and design are conveyed to the hive at large. Other geneticists agree and the improved filter-lord goes into full scale production on two gas giants. If successful they¡¯ll result in a 5% increased output for all gas harvesting. A humble alteration, but one that directly translates to fleet sizes. Across the galaxy we¡¯ve become 5% more virile in space. My claws rub together, 5% amounts to thousands of additional bioships across hundreds of worlds. Hundreds of star systems will be buried under the hive¡¯s will.


    Next I turn to improving the ground troops, there are millions of bioforms, but the world we are advancing on has strict requirements. Humans fighting a trench war, other humans trying to break through them with tanks, the Azhurai Conglomerate fortress, plasma farting Tulverians, and a half dozen other factions. Plasma and the Azhurai are problems. Their weaponry will evaporate any biomass we gather or land so I¡¯ll have to be efficient with our lifeforms. My mind turns to the one place I¡¯ve fought wars before, Starcraft 2.


    Efficiency there is measured in resources saved, Broodlords endlessly bombarding the enemy with living ammunitions, swarmhosts carrying their babies and hurling them over cliffs to harass the enemy. Zergling runbys to chomp mineral lines. All excellent tactics, if I were anything other than a protoss main. Feck.


    There are no ¡®free¡¯ units in real life. A broodling or locust will cost some of my previous biomass. I¡¯ll have to create something ferious, small, fast, and capable of tunneling. A zergling that is meant to never die. If only I knew some of our commander¡¯s intended plans, specific tactics, or the exact terrain then I could plan accordingly!


    Mental blocks trigger once more. I can¡¯t think of the things that steer the hive. This is unacceptable. Mentally, I partition my brain and devote half of it to solving the blocks, I¡¯ll think slower, but that is a perk to my human brain. Just trying to keep Zazathur¡¯s mind occupied is like trying to steer ten thousand cats. Far beyond one human¡¯s control. So I let them run wild.


    My memories have no personality, instead they offer up information that should be relevant. Zazathur died long ago, but the hive keeps remaking his body and filling it with psionically compatible minds like my own. When Zazathur¡¯s brains eventually burn out my consciousness, they¡¯ll fill this body with another intelligence.


    ¡°Jim. What the hell.¡± I whisper, exploring my new body.


    The closest thing imaginable to this creature is a brain bug from Starship Troopers, an ancient satire I deeply enjoyed. Ashley couldn¡¯t appreciate the satire and hated it, thinking it was all about fascism or some cautionary tale about capitalism gone awry. Baz agreed with her, even though he watched the movie on repeat when I wasn¡¯t home. What a hypocrite. How could I have missed that?


    Sorrow translates into fear, and three prehensile stingers push out of sheathes glistening with lethal venoms. Roughly eighteen dorsal spines mirror the combat response by pushing out of skin sheaths, each an envenomed blade I can forcefully eject towards enemies. Kinda like sharting death at mach speeds.


    Natural weapons that would make an Australian feel at home. This body is actually pretty great. Potent, larger than a horse, or bull¡­ No, those creatures are too small to compare, I¡¯m more of a zerg Ultralisk than a weedy scientist. Two of my appendages are bladed so I extend one, wincing as my human mind rewrites itself to this body¡¯s locomotion. It¡¯s as if my pinky finger is suddenly a complete arm. Unsophisticated and unpracticed. The limb shoots out, punching a six foot slash into the wall.


    Mental chastisement grabs my neck, choking the life out of my brain.


    ¡°WHY HARM ME?¡± It demands.


    ¡°Eck- so- sorry! Accident!¡± I gasp, all dozen of my limbs jerking awkwardly.


    The force releases my body. I¡¯m not sure if it intended to toss me, but the release flips me back into the biopool. Worker drones, creatures similar to ants appear and seal the gash in the ship, ignoring me.


    Okay, lets not do that again. I think, slowly working through each muscle, stinger, limb, and inch of the new me. Which is when I see the first message.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Is someone there? My name is Apollo Finley. And something just tried to choke me?


    I close my eyes, but the text remains. Weird, but I¡¯m doing zerg yoga right now, my sub brains can handle that.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Funny, cause my name is Apollo Finley. Last thing I remember was being pulled out of my body.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Straingineer Zazathur? Like, the starcraft commander? Bruh, did you get a degree in eugenics or something? Imagine sitting next to Abathur during a lecture. ¡®Chairs inefficient, eat professor¡¯s brain for knowledge assimilation¡¯.


    I break down laughing. This confirms it, I¡¯ve gone insane. Talking to voices in my head via a twenty year old chat interface.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: haha. I¡¯m not even close to human. What are you? A pregnant queen with twelve wombs you have to self inseminate?


    >Praetorian Panoptes: Lol. wtf. That¡¯s gross, not funny.


    Blue light appears around me, a field of psychic power that pops in the same millisecond it forms. Or my senses are too slow to capture lightning.


    >Praetorian Panoptes: WTF! I thought you were joking¡­ Bro¡­ I¡¯m so sorry.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Relax, this body doesn¡¯t seem to have a pity circuit. Besides, I''m a badass. simple as.


    We spend hours talking, each subtly testing the other, suggesting false memories only for the other to correct us. There is no doubt, we are one being.


    I pass the time weaving genetic strands together, incubating life not seen in this galaxy before. Though the psychic voice I now recognize as the ship itself only permits me the contents of this biopool. All other biomass is tied up, devoted to the cause. We¡¯ll be landing soon. On a world that would love nothing more than to kill every last one of the hive. Our mission is clear, a world with a forested half, beautiful and taller than Lothlorien, and the other half an irradiated husk. Dead, but we must fight to acquire Solarium. A rare mineral only found in the galactic core, deeper than ships can traverse without being crushed or torn apart by the infinite gravity of a supermassive black hole. This world must have once been a rogue planet, somehow transiting the galactic core and being bombarded with the mineral hundreds of billions of years ago, before Earth was even dust.


    Oh, that¡¯s right. Earth, that¡¯s home. I must take over this planet to save home. That is my deal with Jim. The price of mom¡¯s safety.

 Revision Chapter 10 Not Zerglings!

    -12 hours before nuclear detonation-


    Zazathur¡¯s two creatures obey my order.


    No freaking way can they hear me! Is that a telepathic link? Jim, just what did you do to me?


    I mentally order one to hold out its paw, like a golden retriever might be trained to shake. It does so, even lolling its tongue out the side of his mouth. Despite their fangs and spines and chitinous skin, they¡¯re kinda cute. Like a mutated puppy. Although, you probably would get into trouble if you took them to the local dog park. In the same way you¡¯d get in trouble for taking a velociraptor to a petting zoo.


    ¡°Do not harm me.¡± I order, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice.


    Then I swallow, thinking of the next order. In sync, both creatures ¨Cthey aren¡¯t really zerglings¨C begin to wag their tails, proof positive of my total control.


    >Human Apollo: They¡¯re like dogs. I can control them with thoughts.


    Even as I type, I''m looking at ¡®Human Apollo¡¯ and frowning, mentally changing it to fit our growing theme.


    >Terran Apollo: :)


    >Straingineer Zazathur: Cheeky dick.


    My nickname should set us apart, and I want to remind the boys of our final goal, not just that I won our racial coin toss.


    Spread out, search this bunker, I¡¯m looking for powered armor and portable guns. I command, sending the two ¡®zerglings¡¯ into the bunker¡¯s darkness, flashing their bone tails. Like a whip that ends in a bulbous stinger so similar to a scorpion¡¯s. I can see why we called them zerglings, they¡¯re longer, lankier, probably nine feet long -if you count the tail stinger- and their spines rise above our chest. Wait, I¡¯m the only human body left. My chest. I frown, watching the not-zerglings hunt. They are purely quadrupeds, possessing no back arms or hooves or facial horns, so the term is factually wrong. But calling them spinosaurus puppies, extra stingy edition, doesn¡¯t have the same ring as zergling. It¡¯s inaccurate, but a shorthand that tells me exactly what we¡¯re talking about.


    In the bunker¡¯s total darkness they spread out, sniffing the air and moving slowly, feet staying low to the ground, almost shuffling forward. Sensory perception enters my mind, we¡¯re linked together, not really seeing through each other¡¯s eyes, but conscious of information only they can perceive. Somehow they¡¯re able to detect miniscule movements through the earth, a sort of seismograph.


    I paws to appreciate how absurdly awesome these boys are. Together we listen, half-seeing, half-hearing the artillery shells land near Juggernauts. One has been knocked out entirely, flipped upside down and blown in half. I want whatever weapon did that! So I activate my new helmet¡¯s internal functions, noting that location on my helmet¡¯s built in map. ¡®For later investigation¡¯.


    Then the radio kicks on. Making me jump out of my skin. I jerk the trigger to the needle pistol, holding it down for a half second and sending fifty rounds into the ceiling. One of the zerglings glanced back at me, as if to ask ¡®what the hell?¡¯.


    ¡°Sorry.¡± I hiss, ducking behind some crates for cover.


    I don¡¯t make it. A familiar voice halts me midstride. Baz, the traitor, he is in my com channel.


    ¡°My Brave soldiers, today marks the last day Technocracy heathens shall pollute this world! Thanks to our reinforcements from Earth we are advancing on every front, forward! To VICTORY!¡± Says our Field Marshal.


    I choke, dumbfounded.


    Bazzhole was drafted too.


    Except they made him a general, and not just any general, the Field marshal. The highest ranking officer. What complete and total bullshit! Syrak-9 shouldn¡¯t even have a Field Marshal! They command a billion soldiers, not a few thousand. Why promote him to a rank that shouldn¡¯t exist? One frigate can carry a few thousand soldiers, even with multiple resupplies we can¡¯t have more than ten thousand personnel on Syrak-9. A colonel should be our highest officer, why the hell do we have a Field Marshal?


    Distant impacts fade as the Juggernauts split up, six head back, wounded or empty. Repulsed by advancing Singularity forces, great news for them. Potentially fatal for me. At least one Juggernaut is heading for us. My heart thunders, but even that is picked up by the zerglings marking it as unique amongst our four heartbeats.


    Four?


    There are only three of us.


    ¡°Find the fourth!¡± I hiss, coiling my body around the flechette ¡®pistol¡¯. Calling this porker a pistol is something only a cyborg could do. While it has a smooth rear plate for unarmored humans to use, the thing is an awkward brick, meant to be carried and used one handed by power-armor encased Technocracy engineers as a weapon of last resort. Like a P90 SMG that¡¯s made of stainless steel and twenty pounds heavier.


    We don¡¯t have time to search. Nor do we have time to run. Tremorsense paints a picture within my mind. The Juggernaut¡¯s not alone. A support crew of four technicians are jogging across no man¡¯s land to us, one is far heavier than the others. Boots digging deeper into the mud.


    I pray he¡¯s carrying wrenches and not a heavy weapon¡­ Except, what if he is carrying a rocket launcher? One tech is far easier to kill than the Juggernaut. My mind races, trying to decipher a battleplan. No matter what, it all starts with the fourth heartbeat. Zerglings walk to the source, not needing light to find the beating heart. God, they would be a terrifying opponent to face. Able to hunt in pitch black.


    >Straingineer Zazathur: You okay?


    The chat message makes me jump, sending a burst of flechettes into the wall. One zergling looks at me, teeth barred this time, entirely unentertained by my game of peekaboo.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Sorry!¡± I snap, unsure why I''m apologizing to the spiky killer.


    >Terran Apollo: Yeah, good doglings.


    They reach a crate that is sealed under some kind of foil. For lack of a better term its shrink wrapped in metal with the exterior shape maintained by round studs, like a square ribcage-


    -Or a cage. An airtight cage.


    My looted Singularity helmet reminds me that I¡¯ve only found human soldiers here. Earth conscripts. I sprint forward, pistol falling; shovel rising. One thrust rips into the vacuum sealing, unleashing a hiss as pressure equalizes.


    ¡°Rip open the cage!¡±


    Both zerglings leap, their front paws tearing through the steel bars in two swipes. Steel rods shoot into the cage and bounce out towards me.


    ¡°Stop! Don¡¯t hurt what¡¯s inside!¡±


    They obey, retreating a pace so I can assess the damage. Inside are a stack of human bodies. Some are white skinned turning blue around the orifices. Long dead. While others leak blood. Fresher¡­ Scraping through the blood my shovel finds it spongy, or in other words, coagulated and at least a day old. My gasmask filters out any scents but Sable Yurten¡¯s flash training was comprehensive, and I can imagine the stench these corpses would exude. No wonder it was sealed.


    Shovel connects with a steel bar thicker than my thumb. Probably an inch thick.  seeing it bent beneath the dogling¡¯s paws. Crap, that much strength could damage power armor! Warriors is the right name for these zerglings. Their claws tore through inch thick steel on the first pass. A hand touches my throat, activating the helmet¡¯s external speakers.


    ¡°Hello, is anyone alive in there? Speak up or I¡¯ll have to leave you behind. Juggernauts are incoming.¡±


    Zergling hackles rise, and for an instant I wonder if they can launch those back spines. Probably not¡­ But I¡¯m sure Eugenic Hitlerina would approve of that improvement. Which gives me pause, not sure how I feel about having ¡®Eugenic Hitlerina¡¯ as my cheerleader. Or what the term means. Where once the name might have evoked fear, overusage turned it generic and now is as terrifying as Baddy Mcbadface.


    Crunching comes from inside the cage, chasing away dictators with gory squelches. Movement through the bodies. Tremorsense from the zerglings has somehow integrated completely into my own cognition. Together we triangulate the source, finding a heartbeat moving inside the pile. Like a giant birthday cake with a stripper inside, except way, WAY, grosser and hopefully with a different kind of happy ending. I could really use a friend right now. Might keep me sane. I see a Singularity helmeted head bob up and down so I lunge forward fingers hook beneath steel, dragging them out of the heap. Head, arms, torso, pelvis and one leg come free. This body is stiff and totally cold. A zergling sniffs at the stump and before I realize what he intends, his jaw unhinges. Rows of teeth unfold and clamp onto exposed thigh, biting through skin, muscle and bone in a single chomp.


    ¡°Cmon!¡± I snap.


    The zergling swallows, human femur snapping twice as the monster¡¯s throat breaks down the meat. I nearly shit myself. The femur is a human¡¯s largest and thickest bone, yet not-a-zergling snapped it twice. Ignorant to my thundering heart, the ling gets back on task. He darts forward and drags another corpse out of the cage. Or tries to. The corpse snags on something, probably the shredded bars but the zergling keeps pulling like a dog toy. It all happens so quickly, one second Spot the zergling is pulling, the next he is covered in blood, having ripped the body in half. A display that makes his eyes sparkle and stinger wag. He looks at me, expecting dog treats or some nonsense.


    ¡°Bro¡­¡± I mutter, unable to say anything that won¡¯t insult my protector.


    Silence is broken like a wishbone, the other creature dragging another body out and opening a hole in the pile of bodies. I blink. Dumbfounded at what I¡¯m seeing. There is a girl, not a teen, a child. No way is she twelve years old. The little gremlin looks to be eight years old at most. More disturbingly, she¡¯s nude. Thrice concerningly, she is sitting in a sort of craven pocket, as if someone blended all the corpses within reach of her. A manacle around her neck, two inches thick and three inches tall, totally encircling her spine while providing anchor points for a quartet of chains. Each of which is bolted to the cage¡¯s floor.


    Her purple eyes stare into mine, piercing the green lenses of my nightvision. She inhales deeply. Gasping for air. Pupils dilate as lungs fill with oxygen, restarting her aerobic functions. How is she still alive? The cage was sealed and stuffed full of bodies.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± I say, lowering my pistol.


    Sable¡¯s training screams at me. Shrieking bloody murder about Technocracy experiments and traps. Any Singularity soldier would gun down this girl and wipe it from memory in a heartbeat. But I am not the flashtraining. There is a chance that this girl is an Earthling. A kidnapped child caught up in a galaxy of war. I push the training aside as if I don¡¯t already know something is seriously wrong here. Cataclysmically wrong.


    ¡°Whaths a name?¡± Asks the girl, lisping slightly.


    Her mouth moves strangely. I can¡¯t place it but the sensation of ¡®uncanny valley¡¯ creeps up my spine. Something deeply unpleasant has been done to this child, if she even is a child. Maybe Sable is right. Maybe I should gun her down right here then detonate the explosives within this bunker. As if reading my mind, she slumps, glancing at both the zerglings. Side to side eye movements, in total darkness. Her purple irises contain vertical pupils, and for a brief instant her eyes reflect green light from my nightvision. This isn¡¯t a girl, it¡¯s a mutant, or a Technomancy bioweapon.


    ¡°A name is what we call people- uhm¡­ What we call our friends.¡± I say, snapping her eyes back onto me. ¡°Mine is Apollo Finley.¡±


    One zergling steps towards me, shielding me. The Technomancy engineers made it into the trenches without getting blown apart. Damn, was really hoping the artillery bombardment would work. Guess we¡¯re out of smart munitions¡­ If Field Marshal Bazzhole deployed them at all. We¡¯ve got a few moments before the engineers reach us. Worse, they¡¯ve got power armor, even if I run now, I¡¯ll die. I¡¯m trapped.


    Start digging! Dig a hole you and I can hide in. I order. It obeys, dashing towards a corner and excavating the dirt faster than I can think. One glance at the slashing paws keeps me from getting in the way. Those things eviscerate dirt and stone, cutting through rocks as if they are snowballs, aint no way I am going near those.


    Kerrigan blinks. Alien pupils narrow slightly, surprisingly they only appear half dilated in the total darkness. Can this girl even see in daylight?


    ¡°Are you my frien?¡± The girl asks.


    ¡°Sure I am. Can you tell me your name?¡± I spot a crate of Singularity rations in the corner, and silently order the other zergling to grab a few. I¡¯m not really hungry, but I know there is a ¡®c-bar¡¯ in each ration box. No way is it actually chocolate, but it sure tastes good.


    ¡°I donfh ave a name.¡±


    There it is, the reason behind the lisp. Her jaw looks human, but is split vertically through the chin. Like an anaconda¡¯s. Complete with extra teeth that are all slightly angled rearwards. If that weren¡¯t enough, they¡¯re sharp, like the zerglings. This is a baby bioweapon. Ha, that reminds me of a similarly purple and equally violent girl-


    ¡°-Kerrigan.¡±


    ¡°Ith at my name?¡± Says Kerrigan.


    Uhhhh¡­ My immediate thought is, what the hell? NO! Don¡¯t name a child after a fictional mass murdering queen. But then I hear the sound of a juggernaut volley. Twelve SCUD missiles rip through the air and a deep rumble tells me they¡¯ve landed. I don¡¯t have much time. So again I make a snap decision and pray lady luck doesn¡¯t bite me in the ass.


    ¡°Yes, your name is Kerrigan, and you¡¯re my friend. Lets get you out of that cage¡­¡±