《TriThenar Innovation [Starcraft Nerd gets Lost in Space]》


 Bonus Chapter: Photo Gallery, Ads, old cover arts

    An early attempt at Athena''s pic. Hot, but like, girl, where are your pants? It''s also more asian than I envision Athena.


    The AI has no pants... It''s not lewd, but it''s spicy enough that I''ll spoiler it. I considered cropping this and using it as a cover, just having the face and armor.


    This is almost how I envision Azhurai Scouts, each one is unique, and with illogical dimensions. Although this is more necromancer than ''dreamt into reality''.


    I love this picture, pretty spot on for Athena in a custom tailored ghost suit. Although, she would probably change all the accent colors to pink instead of red. And she''ll be rocking the short hair look cause the cryotubes dissolve all hair. So she''s bald until like... chapter 30 lol.


    Considered using this as a cover art, but purple hair is seen as too close to blue hair which has painfully liberal connotations that upset enough people I couldn''t use it. Bleh.


    If the Azhurai conjuer golems from their dreams... When is this guy showing up?


    How I picture some of the Anti-orbital energy cannons, although this one would be a captured one from factions that have been destroyed and their fortresses captured.


    An old cover, it just wasn''t quite right.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    If athena ever makes it to a ball... This would be Savannah''s suggestion for attire. It''s a bit too gaudy for Athena''s preferences. Spoiler cause it has an AI amount of cleavage. It''s more tame than a bikini, but RR has super fickle / inconsistent rules concerning women in pictures.


    Not quite the Ambassadorial courier, but close enough.


    this ad tanked, lol


    I have no idea why this ad works, it''s wordy, hard to read, cropped poorly, has LITERAL DEAD SPACE IN THE RIGHT CORNER.


    decent ad, it took like six iterations to get this joke right. I''m still not a huge fan.


    old cover (performed terribly, but is probably the most reasonable depiction of Athena''s face.


    I considered this for the male cover art, sort of Apollo''s final form.


    The male version''s cover art. When combined with the Thor ad, performed extremely well. I really wish royalroad let me have two versions up at once.


    Pictures of Helen,


    Current cover. Athena would be extremely pleased with this as her anti-radiation layer.


    I considered using this as the cover, but it''s just the wrong aesthetic, too HALO Spartan and not enough Starcraft marine.


    Best performing ad? idk why. It looks like a trainwreck to me.


    Athena with longer hair.


    I''ll probably put this one up as the cover again. The only problem is that it doesn''t give me much room for proper cover text.


    Probably the most accurate depiction of an azhurai scout. Soulless, monochromatic metal, empty orbs for eyes.


    It''s like a psychic, with hair, and lightsabers... Unfortunately that gives a very Jedi vibe every time I try and depict it. Potentially Helen''s ''final form'' or summation of upgrades.

 Prologue A Predicted Outcome (Former Chapter 1)

    I steal a peek over the lip of my rudy trench, inhaling boiling air from my suit¡¯s rebreather. Tasting the tang of irradiated metal leaking into my helmet. Of course those last shots hit my air supply too. My Heads-Up-Display (HUD) stutters, glitching as it recalibrates, numbers spinning wildly as it adjusts the amount of life support remaining. A mild distraction as four autocannons pivot towards my groin.


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


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


    Fan-fucking-tastic.


    Of course the Artificial-Intelligence (AI) made the announcer an aussie. Just what I needed today.


    ¡°Can it you stupid bot. Can¡¯t you tell the pilot¡¯s already dead?¡± I snap, planting a power-armor-boosted kick straight into its twisted chassis.


    Steel snaps under my boot, hydraulic fluid spraying across the groin and stomach of my armor, as if the dead pilot¡¯s soul lingers, wishing to mock his murderer. I glance down my nose at the cyborg wanting to kill him again. Expression tightening. Was the pilot even male? Impossible to guess after the augmentation -surgical butchery- they¡¯d undergone to become one of these superheavy tanks, these Juggernauts. Bile claws up my gullet at the thought of having myself cut apart and fused into the battle mech. Absolutely disgusting-


    -and a blackened mirror to my own transformation. Yet I experience no discomfort, for I chose this path.


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


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


    Especially this battlefield.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I grimace, gritting the pain beneath my armor. ¡°Suit¡¯s buggered. Ah, can you check that bunker for a spare?¡± I manage, forcing my voice to remain level through sheer willpower.


    Tremors rumble across the battlefield, distant. Still I duck beneath cover, lowering myself to a seat atop the tank and face my only remaining friend. Who''s picking her way through the archaic trench -so similar to the muck of World War One- heading towards a battered durasteel arch, gaping wide like the jaws of Cerberus.


    Each breath pours molten glass into my lung, a cruel reminder that overconfidence demands its pound of flesh.


    The girl¡¯s suit is identical to mine, eight feet tall, a brutal exoskeleton of layered of composite armor, designed to shrug off multiple hits from any angle and powered by twin fusion reactors, a form of technology I¡¯m still struggling to understand despite it thrumming within my chest, fully encapsulating the soft human heart.


    Except for the child pilot, entirely organic in nature and giving her an unfortunate handicap of being three-point-five-feet-tall I¡¯m impressed she can move at all in that thing, albeit with a stiff legged waddle. We really should have used something other than artillery shells as stilts, they¡¯re too rigid, tripping the armor''s crush limiters. All the pesky little bits of software that keep the powered armor from actuating a wearer''s limbs beyond what is humanly possible; and bending us backwards.


    Things I wouldn¡¯t have to worry about in her place¡­


    She shouldn¡¯t be here.


    Logic slithers into my thoughts, whispering cold solutions to my problems. I¡¯m the one fighting, it¡¯s only right for me to take the working armor. A child wouldn¡¯t survive the switchover, not before radiation or my busted suit cooked her alive. The idea tightens around me, a parasite clawing at the cracks in my resolve.


    Disgust hits harder than the bullet in my lung, revulsion hotter than the nuclear sun.


    ¡°Otay Phfina.¡± 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, 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. We will live or die together, as best friends should. Our fates intertwined on the back of these newfound abilities. Presents of the device Jim gave me. The protochronian device now hiding beneath my armor, somewhere near my heart. Possibly within it. Whether my heart is flesh or replaced with iron no longer matters.


    I


    am


    human


    A blind scanner ping ripples through the trench, bouncing off our armors before I can duck or hide, mapping our positions. In pico-seconds -faster than thought- our positions will be entered into ballistic computers, targeting two exposed power armors for direct artillery interdiction. Or another kill team.


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


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


    "Shit." I hiss, tapping into my protochronian reactor, [100 / 100 energy] at least that''s fully charged.


    I hammer the only button available to me, the generically cryptic ''Empower''. Nestled within the armor--within me- a caged sun spins to life. Fusion collations ripple through my center, bending reality to my energy. Bones creak, pain lancing up and down my spine as a human body endures forces it was not evolved to experience. Vision sharpening, detecting every pixel of my HUD then plunging between them to see forward, not just in space, but into meaning. Sparks pump through my arteries, heat flaring like ten pounds of caffeine shooting right past the jitters and into a state of stimulated humming. The moment before a duel begins.


    Stolen story; please report.


    A feeling that sticks to my entire body, like gelatinized anxiety. Waiting for the moment I can release it. I exhale long and slow, still perched atop the Juggernaut, shielding Kerrigan with my body once again. A few more bullet holes in my armor won''t matter.


    Kerrigan¡¯s shuffle becomes a frantic straight-legged waddle, limbs slurping in and out of puddles as the suit compensates for a kid pilot. I don¡¯t want her last memory to be my shouting. So I activate the com once more.


    ¡°Thanks Kerrigan. Be quick now.¡± I gasp, smothering the agony in my voice. No reason to make a child half my age worry about my bullet wounds. Besides, I already rubbed some hydraulic oil into them, best we can do since the dirt is radioactive.


    Howling echoes through the trench, hunting dogs summoned by the ping or the mad leftovers of a slain army.


    Time to go.


    My boots -slick with hydraulic fluid- slips off a Juggernaut¡¯s track, the metal tangle clawing out from the depths of muddy hell to snag my ankle sending me cartwheeling over fragmented autocannons and empty missile racks. Their dead scanners chasing 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 enters a lull, holding it''s breath before a furious lunge.


    I think.


    God, I really hope so.


    Howls snap off, severed by the echo of C9 particle rifles. Mass produced and mil-spec weapons that my army will never stoop to using. Yet quite fatal.


    Flashing lights warn of my left reactor overheating, going super critical. Normally I could shunt spare coolant from the opposite reactor to even out the load, but it¡¯s nonfunctional from the five autocannon bullets lodged inside it. Minutes of air left, enemies incoming, and busted armor.


    Suit power begins to fail, adding hundreds of pounds as I struggle to stand, rising to one knee before joints cease to bend.


    Sorry Kerrigan, this is as far as I go...


    My eyes fall on her waddling armor, somehow she''s got her tail flicking behind her, doing what little the thin barbed appendage can to counterbalance a thousand ton suit of power armor. Like a housecat in full plate armor, except for the tail.


    A smile infects my face. Suit power or not, we will find a way. I channel my ''Empower'' ability into the suit. Solarium energy, tawny and chrome rushes from my skin into the power armor filling it with juice.


    My hud blinks red. 5:00 until power failure. Enough time. I stand, coughing blood into my fishbowl helmet, running with all my might towards Kerrigan and the bunker''s protection.


    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 hound-lings and laser fire die off in an instant, smothered beneath the weight of a single, shared realization. The few survivors of this pocket war registering the same grim 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 knifes through the atmosphere, an ominous herald. No reading on the HUD means the missile is out of scanner range, yet visible. An infantryman¡¯s way of saying InterContinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM). I swallow, trying to work spit back into my mouth. The missile 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 nuke.¡± I whisper.


    I value my own hide quite highly¡ªit¡¯s the best one. Yes, that¡¯s not saying a whole lot considering I¡¯ve possessed a grand total of three bodies, but still! Nuclear annihilation is low on my list of preferred deaths.


    Energy batteries whine, thrumming to life for several horrible seconds. Each instant bringing the missile deeper into our atmosphere. A dozen alien fortresses fire, beams of hope lancing into the heavens. Nine go wide, vanishing into the abyss of space at .9C. Effectively the speed of light. Three beams score direct hits, one on the nose and two center mass. A blue sphere glows softly, 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. To win the war by erasing everyone, including themselves. Galactic sanctions would be imposed, a small comfort to my soon-to-be vaporized body.


    Damn, three lives and I couldn¡¯t get married in a single one. Sometimes the universe is a cruel bitch.


    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?


    I laugh. The answer is obvious, sitting within my chest. A weapon so mighty it caused half of the galaxy''s humans to give up. At least, it''s that potent when combined with the squads standing in the nearby bunker.


    Between the childish bioweapon and myself there are four power armor wearing, plasma wielding silhouettes that guard my nanofactory. A sort of universal assembling and production facility that can turn those four power armored prototypical mutants into an endless army. In a month there would have been hundreds of them, and thousands of the quadruped shadows lurking just behind them. A legion of mutant marines to compliment an endless horde of spinolings. A threat so great that the Novan AI would lose, so they¡¯d broken the only rule -no radiation, no nukes- during this battle royale. To take me out. Kill me here and now before my influence could spread off world.


    A logical course of action.


    If not for the solarium mines.


    Artificial Intelligences of every stripe require solarium reactors and its unique form of energy. Able to power anything, from armor, to my embedded reactor, to my cells, and even to the rare protochronian devices of the -nameless-. All races require solarium, but to the Novan Technomancy of Steel it is more than energy as enriched solarium is the very essence of their AI technologies; so fundamental to their kernels. More baffling still, they relied upon the solarium mines of Syrak-9 as their primary source. A nuke here poisons their own well!


    Now the nuclear radiation would scatter across the atmosphere, irradiating anything that attempted to harvest solarium for the next millennia, if not two. Worse, irradiated solarium operates at one tenth efficiency until the radioactive isotopes 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 designed to ricochet bullets and horny exes alike, like a steel shutter slamming shut to provide the highest level of protection possible for an armored trooper.


    I sigh, annoyed that the armor doesn¡¯t know when shut up.


    ¡°NUCLEAR DETONATION DETECTED!¡±


    ¡°FIND COVER!¡±


    ¡°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 1 Thirty Six Hours Prior to Nuclear Detonation

    I freeze, praying to the ghost of Fenix my eyes are deceiving me. Eyelids actuate, blinking several times in unseeing disbelief. This can¡¯t be possible. It just can¡¯t!


    I pinch my arm pain muted against the dullness of my cold heart. There is no escaping the viscous truth, not with that trashy octopus tattoo on his neck. I¡¯ve always hated that tattoo. Worse, I hate it more when Ashley¡¯s perfectly manicured nails are tracing its small blue rings. She¡¯s even wearing our ¡®best friends forever¡¯ necklace, half of a broken heart.


    How fitting.


    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 whore is riding my boyfriend, while his tongue plays 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 with a deluge of tertiary information. Unimportant factoids like ¡®a marine¡¯s stim ability costs 10 hit points in Starcraft 2. A very balanced and rational way of giving the ability a cost, except when reapers gain the same combat drugs they gain the inverse and heal after a delay.¡¯ Very strange.


    Baz unbuttons her overly tight blouse, slaughtering all my attempts at distraction.


    My mouth falls open, wide enough to knock the tupperware out of my hands -still not as wide as theirs-


    Oh gawd.


    Where are their tongues going?!


    Soft cookies break against linoleum, crushed by my plummeting heart. Those little buggers took all night to bake, most of that time spent shaping them into Protoss pylons and adorable little banelings with chocolate chip eyes! Now they¡¯re reduced to crumbs.


    By some inexplicable miracle the sound of bouncing tupperware does nothing to disturb my roommate or my EX-boyfriend; if anything, it strokes deeper passions. I want to puke, to disappear from sight, to cease existing. Fly into the sun and vanish from disgust. Throw myself down the six flights of stairs I just climbed to deliver my affection. Along with the promise of finally being ready.


    At least I hadn¡¯t given him that! As if he would give a damn. 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.


    My thoughts repeat down the stairwell, across campus, and into my dorm room. The one I share with Ashley the whore and two other girls. Our apartment consists of four total rooms, a common area with kitchenette, the bathroom, and our two bedrooms, one of which I share with Ashley. Making us the closest of roommates.


    ¡°Oh for fuuuuckkkssake!¡± I cry, burying my head in my pillow and screaming.


    How am I going to look her in the eye? Just the act of picturing her face hangs me upon the edge of a depressive spiral. I consider firing up a modded campaign of Starcraft 2 to disappear into a more friendly world. At least there my enemies are clearly labeled in red.


    Only to push the thought away. I need to get out of here, get away from Whorely. No way can I sleep five feet away from her and not strangle the bitch. Finals are over, they finished last week and the only reason I¡¯m not on a lake retreat with mom and dad is cause my now EX-boyfriend Baz wanted to spend time with me.


    That asshole.


    ¡°Hey, is that Athena?¡± Calls a voice in the next room.


    ¡°Sounds like she forgot the sugar in those cookies¡­¡±


    ¡°Again? Bummer, they were so cute, with the green frosting and chocolate eyes. Should have asked Ashley for help, she¡¯s such a wizard in the kitchen. I don¡¯t know how she does it, but those gluten free cookies of hers taste better than ones with butter!¡±


    I roll my eyes, thinking ''That¡¯s cause Whorely lies. They aren¡¯t gluten free at all! I just didn¡¯t have the heart to tell you.''


    A door squeaks open, and one of my neutral roommates knocks twice, more to announce herself than to ask permission.


    ¡°Hey Thena, some guy from the college offices hand delivered this letter for you, it¡¯s all official looking and like, addressed specifically to you dude.¡±


    I know it¡¯s Savannah, the Cali girl. She¡¯s a sweet blonde, but I want none of her cutesy freckles or dude-bro-ness today.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a dude.¡± I snap.


    ¡°Sorry, its like, gender neutral.¡± She says, entering my room and gently laying the fancy letter atop our shared nightstand.


    Why would you do this to me Ashley? And with Baz! Of all the people WHY YOUR BROTHER?!


    Part of me wants to laugh at this revelation. Hard not to smile at the nuclear sized bullet I just dodged. What if I¡¯d given my virginity to a sister-fucker? What if he knocked me up? The very thought sends crippling knots through my bowels.


    NO!


    Those twin traitors are the last things I ever want to think about again. There is a two week break between final exams and the next semester starting. Plenty of time for me to get out of this whorehouse and find a new apartment! Maybe the letter is an invitation to the Dean¡¯s list or something. I did get straight A''s fall and winter semesters... But summer semester is weird, students take one class at a time so individual lessons are multiple hours everyday for a few weeks. "Learning by immersion" is the formal term, a style that did not work for me.


    My shaking hands grasp the letter, going clammy. I¡¯m trembling so badly that fingers slip and tear the letter right down its center. The college¡¯s fancy seal is ruined, so much for showing this to mom.


    ¡°Christ Athena, can¡¯t you even open a letter?¡± I grumble, tears already welling in my eyes.


    If I start crying now, I won¡¯t be able to stop before Whorely gets home. Hatred steadies my hands, allowing me to piece two halves together.


    ---


    Notice of Academic Probation


    Dear Athena 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 2.0 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.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    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¡­


    ---


    "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! Who were they to ruin my life? I throw the letter and scream into my pillow. Pent up tears find an exit through my nose, snot leaking as emotions break through. How could this be happening? The scores from my finals aren¡¯t even back yet! And I thought I did great!


    ...


    Shit¡­ When it comes to finals, you never do as well as you think.


    I must have flunked all two of them. But this is only the summer term! Sure I failed my underwater basket weaving class, but that doesn¡¯t count! No one in their right mind could be expected to pay attention to a professor when the entire class was in hot tubs and swimsuits. It was a summer elective meant to help me move dorms, to start over and meet new people after my year off. After being institutionalized back home. Anything to get away from that black spot. I glance down at the letter, fury rising. How are they punishing me for two classes after two semesters of straight As? Why are they coming for me now? A single F wouldn¡¯t impact my cumulative GPA at all!


    Fukfukfuckfuckitycuckfucksucking!


    Tears flow freely, falling on my now wet teeth, white daggers that bite into whiter pillowcases, whispering secret tears for long hours. How long I cried is a secret only my pillow knows, but my eyes were still wet when the bedroom lights flicked off. While across the hall I hear Savannah''s Cali mouth.


    ¡°Move to Utah you said, we don¡¯t have blackouts like Commie-fornia you said!¡± Snaps Savannah, smacking her lips like she just applied a fresh layer of gloss.


    She¡¯s plastic as all hell, but I can¡¯t help but smile at the sarcasm.


    ¡°Someone probably tried to run too many dildoes off the same breaker like you did last week. Just give it a minute.¡± Says our fourth roommate, a girl who keeps to herself.


    Faint buzzing fills my head, like there is a fly around my ponytail. I reach up to swat it, only for my hand to go limp.


    My eyes open then close, squeezing out the last of my tears, but I can see a blue window hovers in front of me, visible through eyelids and tears. Another hallucination.


    ¡°Great, my bae- NO! EX bae! My ex cheated on me so hard I¡¯ve gone senile.¡± I groan, wondering if a game of coop will cheer me up.


    Matches always steadied my mind, the game''s predictable rhythm a soothing form of active meditation. Probably not, but it¡¯ll only take five minutes¡­ Not like Amon can withstand an SC2 Grandmaster, even if I only earned that rank on the North American server.


    ¡°Whoa. What is- ¡­ Hey Sav, did you put weed in our cheerios again-¡±


    ¡°No¨C I mean, I totally did, but Baz is gonna throw this wicked party¨C"


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


    [Earth. Like every other human world!]


    [Shit, that last one being called Eden has got me all thrown off kilter. Novan tainted colonies are weird like that.]


    [You¡¯re still broadcasting greenhorn!]


    The words are speaking into my brain directly, verbally and visually being displayed on the blue screen in English. Though I get the sensation that some meanings vary, as if being machine translated from a foreign language. Which only makes the two voices sound more like Curly and Moe stooging up a storm. This is easily the worst trip of my life. Geriatric bullshit that makes me wish for auditory schizophrenia, at least then I''d be talking to someone more intelligent. Mentally I try and dismiss the message, receiving a red flash and slight screen shimmy in way of refusal.


    "Great, the two stooges now have unskippable cutscenes."


    [HELLO PEOPLE OF EARTH! We represent your gracious overlords, the protectors of your spiral arm The Most Holy Singularity of Mankind. Rejoyce! For today the Most Holy Singularity welcomes you, our chosen heirs, back into the family of unity. Gone are the days of diseases! Both mental and spiritual. Though such a boon requires a tribute for the greater good. Fear not, for this is but a trifling cost for immortality.


    Your civilization exceeds all expectations for a successful world integration, which is excellent news for us both! Since your society will persevere after culling.


    Now I know that word has some unfriendly connotations to some of you, but our Most Holy Singularity has devoted a great deal of resources in safeguarding you. Tis high time for you to protect other worlds in turn, such is the way of this galaxy, for now. But hear me now,]


    The voice changes, growing deeper. As if the announcer¡¯s lips are pressing into the microphone.


    [I swear, by the power of this Arkship entrusted to me, one day we shall defeat the Novans so completely that cullings will never again be required! A day when the scourge of false unity is purged from every memory bank in the galaxy.]


    The announcer''s voice is spitting rage, shivering the blue screen. Only for the announcer''s voice to revert in the next syllable. I reel at the sudden vehemence, where had that come from? Whomever this clown is, they are more unhinged than I am! Maybe it''s time to call mom, see how she is doing.


    [Until then, think of this day as a sort of sales tax, The Holy Singularity has purchased your access onto the galactic stage with trillions of lives, you just have to cover the tax of that purchase and donate a few people. Everyone between ages 12 and 42 will then join our ranks as colonists, doctors, and honorable warriors across the galaxy.]


    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. Drafted? But, that means joining the military. Or uhm, space force. Who will we be fighting?


    It¡¯s all too much to process. I go limp. They can¡¯t take me if I won¡¯t get out of bed.


    No interstellar wars for me, at least not outside the Koprulu sector.


    I pull the Zerus themed comforter over my hips, hoping the jungle theme can evolve some warm fuzzies outta this trip.


    "Must be tripping." I whisper.


    Bazzhole and Whorely hooking up, an interstellar draft? This can¡¯t be real, maybe I¡¯m having another series of hallucinations, like two years ago when the doctors diagnosed me with a bad case of ESP, a catch all term for the random abilities human beings began manifesting in 1943. No one understood these powers, only their empirical effects, weak as they might be. In my specific case, the -very impressive- ability to move 5 grams of weight with nothing more than a thought.


    Telekinesis, an ability that matured too late in life for me to learn its uses. Twas as if I¡¯d suddenly sprouted a third and fourth thumb on each hand at the ripe old age of twenty one. Consequently crippling both digits, regardless of how much training I attempted the digit would never be as agile as my natural hands.


    Except ESP comes with side effects, in my case an unusual form of schizoid hallucinations, voices, transient and erratic thoughts. The reason I¡¯d dropped out of college and returned home for a year. I reach into the nightstand, fumbling through brushes and lotions for the Lithium pills. They hadn¡¯t worked last year, no way they¡¯ll work now but I promised mom I would never stop hoping for-


    -polymer checkering pricks my fingers, my high school graduation gift. A pistol, something of an oddball that dad unilaterally decided I needed. It¡¯s an older model, out of production due to low sales despite being the most kickass pistol I''d ever seen. Simple, yet perfectly ambidextrous, modern yet incorporating two hundred years of pistol designs, an FNX-9 with seventeen rounds in a magazine. Dad said I needed ''protection'' in case boys weren¡¯t turned off by my crippling addiction to Starcraft and for once, he is right.


    No one is going to kidnap me. Not with my Zerus blankie and pistol to keep me safe.


    The pistol weighs like an anchor on my hand, slowing my thoughts. Tempering the hellfire of despair to a cold logic as we are forced to contemplate who to shoot. My apartment walls are thin, drywall and studs. This isn¡¯t a good place to fight-


    -Although, if the aliens take me I won¡¯t have to share a room with Whorely anymore. Guess an abduction wouldn¡¯t be the worst thing that could happen. A third of my mind embraces the concept, eager to escape the cheating siblings. Really, who cheats with their blood relative?


    I pause on that thought, basking in the wrongness of it. "Baz, you''re an ass, but thanks for shitting on someone else''s lawn so I could run for the hills. You''ve given me a rare and precious thing. A clean break." I say, laughing into the blanket.


    Another screen appears. Mouthing off again. This time I grab my carbot zergling plushie, tucking it under my head.


    [I see some of you are reacting poorly to this news, sadly you settled negotiations back in October of 1963 with the Havanna Concordant. Don''t worry, I''ve already beamed up all nuclear warheads, along with any usable weapons and munitions, you can keep your clockwork-revolving-pistolshits.]


    I chuckle at the mistranslation. This announcer guy could do with some public relations trainings, or spend a few hours watching streamers perform, because right now he looks like a hot mess, unable to articulate his intentions or provide any meaningful communication.


    [Ahem, in accordance with Singularity law and aforementioned Concordant, all relocated arms will be compensated for with galactic credits, and tallied against Earth''s defense debt.


    Per the terms I am depositing seven enriched solarium gates that will allow instantaneous transportation to any continent, as well as to the two gates in orbit. For a total of nine ways to interact with the galaxy.


    This fulfils our end of the treaty.]


    [Cmon Jim, you¡¯re butchering the announcement!] Snapped a second voice, older and more resonant than the first.


    [Right right, oh where was I? Eh, doesn¡¯t matter. You¡¯ll be mindwiped and then flashtrained to fill in our gaps. If you find any of this disturbing be sure to report any and all concerns to your nearest medical professional. We give them weekend trainings specifically on recursive mindwipes! Toodles.]


    Irritation illuminates my window, soft flashes of blue light. A grey haired professor vanishes, his clothes falling to the sidewalk while a biker disintegrates, leaving only his bicycle and those goofy shoes that clip into the pedals behind.


    "What in Kerrigan''s name-"


    [DO IT RIGHT!]


    [Okay, OKAY. Fine. Look here earthlings. I was once in your shoes, yes, they culled my world too. This process of seeding and culling seems heartless, inhumane even, but I guarantee it is the smoothest possible course of action. A ritual that has been tried and tested over hundreds of thousands of years. We have a technology known as flashtraining, you might call it the matrix. It is a way to directly upload information into your cerebrum, experiencing a lifetime of training and sweat in a matter of hours. In fact I''m living proof that it works, I was flashtrained, and just look at me now! First Mate of an Arkship, one of only a dozen in the entire galaxy, complete with two protochronian devices.


    Cullings are a method of last resort for our Singularity, a painful wound that takes centuries to heal.


    But our hated nemesis, evil incarnate -the Novan Technocracy of Steel- is about to seize this world. See that ¡®of Steel¡¯ part in their name, it¡¯s not for show. They''re a formerly human civilization who decided AI was good enough to replace their leaders, not realizing the AI would then immediately start replacing them. Humans under their control have no self determination, no ability to learn and grow. They¡¯ll lobotomize every last one of you, carve off your limbs so you¡¯ll fit inside whatever tank or toaster or dildo they need to be ¡®smart¡¯. So we were sent to give you a chance, not here, but on Syrak-9.]


    He paused, allowing the globe a few moments to process the message. Outside more blue flashes fire, people vanishing at an increasing rate. Across the street there is a US Army recruiting office, a row of armored Hummvees. Azure light swallows the heavy SUVs, pouring inside the building like some kind of water elemental swallowing recruiters and then itself in a shrinking vertical whirlpool.


    "What the hell?" I blab, mouth falling open.


    [Most of you will become pilots or generals. We even have a few million slots for colonists. Flash training will be like going to sleep then waking up having earned a college degree alongside a four year apprenticeship, really great tech.]


    We¡¯ve been given a choice between brain carvings and biting the pillow. If they started with Bazzhole I would probably cheer.


    My last thought on the planet Earth.


    Nothing heralds the transition. Presumably Jim was beaming people aboard while he spoke, distracting us with meaningless niceties as he plundered Earth.


    Two soft thumps echoed down the hall, as if Savanah dropped her bowl of laced cheerios, but I was too distracted by the teleportation. One second I was laying in bed, wet faced, teary eyed, academic probation letter in front of me, and the next completely naked -unless you count earrings and pistol as clothes-.


    Slime coated my entire body in a moistness that gagged thought.


    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 crystal clear tube with five inch thick walls around me. Exposed like a Vegas mermaid about to drown in whatever concoction they¡¯ve isolated me in.


    Nostrils flare, inhaling a second time on reflex. I prepare for the end, wishing Baz and Ashley meet a similar fate. An echo of the announcement rises in my mind, drafting all ages twelve to forty two. Mom is thirty eight years young. She could be here too. Damnit. Seconds pass, I inhale again, viscous gloop filling my throat and lungs. My vision blurs. Mind working. Is this death? Had the tax collectors killed us?


    Why would tax collectors kill? We were the prize. It was like the IRS collecting your taxes only to put the bills through a shredder. Nothing made any sense. Then I realize waste is standard operating procedure for governments.


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


    Doomed to drown.

 Chapter 2 Meet the Final Boss, Conquerors of Sol

    Warm salty sludge flooded my mouth, inhaled by traitorous lungs. They say drowning is a peaceful way to die- a quirk of our biological development within an aquatic womb. ''Peaceful'' could not have been further from my mind. I screamed, bubbles glug-glugging upwards. A direction I followed with my pistol. Finger on the trigger and squeezing on sympathetic reflex alone; firing a single round towards a metal disk, a cap adorned with foreign protrusions and nodes that must have regulated the pod. My pistol, mundane as it was, poked a hole in the unsuspecting hardware with a soft plop. Leaving a small bubble behind. A small pocket of air.


    I kicked off, struggling to swim through the cryogel, only to inhale again, drawing the sludge deeper into my lungs. Muscles yearned for oxygen and received it.


    That wasn''t right. Not even a little bit. More wrong than my earrings and complete lack of clothing. Another breath, and my mind continued to function normally, no narrowing of vision or weakness plagued me. Another breath, this time exhaling through the nose unleashed snot tinged bubbles floating upwards like dandelion fluffs in lazy spirals that rose only when movement disturbed the otherwise solid gel.


    So gross.


    My hands and feet spread out, trying to climb the tube like a rock climber wedges themselves up a crevasse. A clever strategy that failed due to a suspicious lack of friction.


    Gel cascaded down my tongue and throat filling my respiratory tract with a warm, heavy presence. So similar to a weighted blanket. My chest expands, accommodating this new medium as a comforting relief spreads through me, like an embrace from within. Breathing out, I hear the gentle burble of bubbles escaping the Eustachian tubes in my ears a soothing counterpoint to the steady rhythm of my pounding heart, who''s beat now pounds against my entire body, unhindered by air. With each cycle, the initial strangeness fades, replaced by a sense of peace.


    This is not drowning.


    Damnit! I was safe but trapped, and in desperate need of some pants. One look down told me all arm hairs were gone, along with my Raynor-Teal limited edition nail polish. More importantly the cryotube was literally just a tube of crystal, with metal on the top and bottom. Which seemed to be a metallic sphincter comprised of overlapping plates that seemed able to iris open and closed. If that were punctured, then gravity would drain this tube...


    My pistol descended, firing again. The hollow-point projectile blossomed open, expanding to triple its radius and decelerating in the thick medium to gently tap against the bottom. I inhale once more as clear fluid moved in and out of my lungs, its clean scent reminiscent of rain on a summer day mixed with yellow Gatorade. Air bubbles escaped my nose, rising slowly through the goop accelerating with each movement of my limbs, cutting through and disturbing the entombing gel.


    I tuck knees to chin, collapsing inward and slowly flick my hands and feet til inversion. A sickeningly neutral sensation as my ears are clogged solid and thus do not provide the normal vertigo response. I''m thankful as it permits me to swim -one inch for every stroke of an arm- downward, bringing my pistol''s muzzle six inches from the floor. Green sights align near the edge, finding the center of one of the many ''leaves'' of the iris. Where the material should be thinnest as there is no overlap with adjacent leaves.


    Hammer falls, silence.


    I swallow, twisting the pistol sideways concerned that my only weapon broke during the submerged firing. Guns aren''t designed for underwater operations, especially not space wars against Nickelodeon slime entities. Brass protrudes from the ejection port, a short stroke malfunction, easily amended. My fingers cycle the slide, ejecting the spent brass casing and chambering the new round. Then pray as I try again, this time receiving the expected detonation.


    Whatever the ''steel'' material actually is breaks cleanly, leaving a large grain structure along the edge, representative of a highly brittle material. But analysis can wait, I have an exit hole! Gel leaks from the hole like bubblegum. Which is to say, not at all. Teeth snap shut against slime, venting frustration at this hot tub prison. My fist is next, flapping goo towards the breach to receive the most satisfying burp of my life. One burp follows another, a self sustaining siphon that will drain this tube over the next hour or so.


    Time begets thought. Thought ignites curiosity, and curiosity takes over, my mind racing through potential outcomes. My hallucinations were only ever auditory, never connected to touch or taste, firmly anchoring this as reality. Across from me stands an identical pod, similarly occupied by a man who -like me- is awake.


    His eyes skip over my lack of modesty, zeroing in on my face with an intense stare. On a normal day I''d be intimidated by those brooding eyes, yet a bald head and substantial muscles combine to make him a dead ringer for Mr. Clean. It helps that his pod has a panel wrapped around it''s center, keeping him effortlessly covered, as if the world bends to preserve his modesty.


    He presses hands together in the universal sign of praying. Then jabs steepled fingers towards a panel outside his tube at the touchscreen displaying his information. -Richard Z.-


    Completely inaccessible. Well, it is for a mere mortal and not a superior psionic being like myself!


    I laughed, the sound like drumming pillows, gently pushing air bubbles out of sight. Time to employ every gram of my telekinetic might and escape. Guess I can help the dude as well... After all, what girl can say no to a six pack like Richard''s?


    ---


    -Aboard the Arkship''s bridge-


    Felicia flickered into reality, her six foot figure reaching that vaunted height with stylish heels, providing a visual representation of the Arkship''s commanding intelligence. A digital deity wired into every circuit of the Arkship. The hologram was mostly for the benefit of secondary systems such as the two human officers. Who served as pilots, captains, mechanics, and most crucially the infallible human oversight required by Singularity mandate. They were unnecessary, as every system was fully automated, yet it always pleased her to be acknowledged by them.


    A melodic tone momentarily quells their readouts, as Felicia makes her report to the human oversight.


    ¡°Final gate has achieved geosynchronous orbit. Quite the puzzle with all this orbital debris. Aaaaannnnd done." Felicia says, dragging out the word as she beams up the last human. "There we go, harvest complete. Shutting down both protochronian engines. Ah, just in time too. Solarium reserves are dangerously low, far too little for another gate deployment."


    On her right, Jim watched the reports pile in, AI powered subroutines sorting through the preposterous surfeit of humans. Nearly quadruple the forecast. Minutes ticked by as four billion humans were scanned, analyzed and sorted into various categories, starting with the lowest tier of ''unfit for any service'' and rising to the exalted tier of ''special grade merchandise''.


    Jim¡¯s lips curled into a smirk, his voice dripping with triumph. ¡°Captain, today is a Singular day! Three billion over our yearly quota. Three billion! Lots of special grades too, mostly weak psychics and espers but a few are protochronian compatible! We could dump half a billion and retire as kings. Then buy our own worlds and a fleet to protect them.¡±


    "Ah hell Jim, keep your smuggling ideas to yourself! Half the planet is skitzo and the most advanced country is the fattest. Never seen such a decadent culling. We¡¯ll have to reject millions these worthless sacks of shit.¡± He finishes, hurling his datapad across the fragile command desk.


    A move Felicia protects against with localized shielding deflecting the pad away from sensitive buttons and screens. Her holographic imitation paced between the chairs, arms clasped behind her back like an admiral surveying a battlefield. Never pausing despite her many tasks.


    A deluge of diodes and alerts surged like a tidal wave¡ªbeeps, honks, and hoots colliding in a chaotic symphony. Auditory warnings of faulty humans.


    Jim adjusts the sorting algorithms, adding higher minimums for each category. A process he does not pause during the captain''s churlish outburst, knowing better than to push his luck. After all, they have a delicate understanding. He fucks off, and Captain Haime turns a blind eye to extracurricular activities, falsifying reports to hide his off-mission sales, and the worst of their unsuitable merchandise, making them both look good. As proof, a rainbow of medals and commendations line the cockpit wall, a welded shrine to their underhanded successes.


    Haime presses a button to warp the humans home, only to receive a warning error. ''Insufficient solarium''.


    "Great... Teleporter''s kaput. You''ll have to get dirty." Haime sneers, working through three separate ledgers. "Felicia, plot a course back to Syrak-9 for resupply, shop around and see if anyone will trade humans for solarium. Offer a minor discount and offload all the generics."


    "Engaging engines." Felicia says.


    Jim shrugs, jaded to the process of sorting humans into piles of keep and recycle. Except for a few psychics, they''re already dead. Better to die now in the recyclers, a painless death under anesthetic.


    He rises from the encapsulating chair, his second, unmonitored datapad in hand, sorting through the special grade merchandise for any humans that show a particular level of compatibility with the bulge in his jumpsuit. a Protochronian device he''s kept hidden from Felicia and Haime both, one for creating the Singularity''s most terrifying and -most prohibited- weapon of war. A bioweapon. Though this specific device has no equal for it is a virgin example, never tampered with or cloned.


    Possibly unused for all of eternity, as the term protochronian means "That which came before time itself". An enigmatic device left behind by the first spacefarers, those who granted this galaxy spacetravel, and the jump gates. Technological investments they should have been eager to collect on, making their disappearance the most inexplicable mystery in known space.


    Stolen novel; please report.


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


    ¡°Orbital star gate is activating? Who cold dials an uncharted backwater-¡±


    Proximity alarms caterwaul as one wormhole signal becomes forty, their arrivals staggered only by order of power generation, sending the most advanced race through first. Haime¡¯s face falls open, staring at the svelte corvette that emerges long before all others.


    ¡°Jim, if we die¨C¡±


    Jim gulps, Haime''s has a neural uplink directly to Felicia, if his meatsuit dies, his consciousness will instantly activate in a virtual world. Unless Felicia, and by extension our Arkship, is entirely gutted. Whatever the ship is, it''s a doozy.


    ¡°No time for gawking! Transmit our charter before they vaporize us!¡± Jim shouts.


    "Azhurai Conglomerate Corvette has cleared the gate, maneuvering. Her weapons are hot..." Felicia says.


    Seconds drip by as the sleek crystalline ship emerges from the disk of light. Like all corvettes she''s fast, with more guns than crew, and like all Azhurai ships shielded better than most homeworlds. Oddly conical due to the main gun, a prismatic array capable of variable output, all the way from scrotum shaving precision to strength capable of peeling away a planet''s mantle and scooping out the molten core.


    ¡°Charter has been transmitted. They wouldn''t dare shoot at an Arkship right? I mean- we lay the gateways for everyone in the galaxy!" Haime says, tapping the neural jack to inject a mix of unfiltered dopamine and bio-identical testosterone, chemicals meant to induce euphoria.


    If he dies, it''ll be with a smile.


    Rude lights vanish, missile locks fading.


    "Why are you worried Haaaaiiime?" Felicia chimes, taunting the crackhead-in-command. "Azhurai Corvette recognizes me as a -nameless- chartered Arkship, and guaranteed our safety. Such a gentleman. Captain Aence even sent an apology for targeting us." She says, opening a holographic display of the local system in preparation for the coming battle.


    Thousands of minable asteroids hang in a belt, promising to richly reward any xenos race willing to build orbital refineries; and with a thriving population of three billion -highly adaptable- humans located a single gate transit away, this system is a gold mine. In both literal and metaphorical senses, as there is a sizeable quantity of heavy metals located on the planet, and freely accessible to the industrialized natives. Facts the Azhurai are well aware of.


    One ricegrain of red light blinks on the hologram, representing the corvette, lurking like a trapdoor spider above the gate. Right in the blindspot for arriving ships.


    "Just wait til our colonization fleet shows up. We''ll blast those Conglomerate circuit breakers right outta the sky. Just like the Xentarii." Jim says, wrinkling his nose at the concept of a Conglomerate empire.


    According to him, they shouldn''t exist, the very idea is counter to human nature. Hundreds or thousands of unique species all serving a single technological over-race creates a hodge podge of cultural nonsense where shitting in the kitchen is a daily occurrence. Worse, they''re always stealing worlds, nipping at the heels of neighbors and allies, nipping at his homeworld-


    -Blaring clolarions erupt as the orbital gate opens once more, marking the start of Earth''s conquest.


    And completely overriding Felicia''s warnings concerning two malfunctioning cryopods...


    ---


    ---Athena---


    Sweat poured down my face, somehow repelling the gel in a soggy gelatinous mess across my nose. Any makeup was sure to be ruined. But who cared, all my shaking had worked a screw loose. Why did aliens still use screws? No idea. Maybe it was the same reason they stole a Humvee instead of making a smarter car. Easier to take prebuilt materials than make your own, and let''s be honest, screws just work. Like hammers. Or bullets.


    I cupped the gel, forming a clear wad free of bubbles or pistols and used it as binoculars, pressing them against the tube''s crystal wall. Now that my tube was half drained, I opted to remain within the goopy section, not certain how transitioning from slime-breathing to air-breathing would affect me. An idle thought I pushed away, focusing on the last screw, willing it to turn with every ounce of my being.


    Nothing.


    I took a breath of fresh slime, already growing accustomed to being a test tube baby. Right up until gravity decided to pull sideways. The entire ship lunged forward throwing me against the wall. Gel cushioned the crush like a pile of dry leaves, conforming to every curve as I curled into a ball and floated with the flow, hands and feet slipping off lubricated glass.


    "We''re in a ship." I gaped aloud, connecting the sharp shifts in momentum to Savannah''s driving.


    Some people just made the stereotypes look tame, and Savannah was one of those special women.


    Each jerk and turn squirted a bit more gel from my tube, rapidly clearing it. I steadied mind and body, opening Richard''s panel. Inside the panel lay a damn Iphone, one of the ancient models, running some kind of mcdonalds food ordering app. Most options were out of stock or greyed out, but at least this menu was in actual English! Something I could read!


    One quick press of the ''water'' option drained Richard''s tune, and a tap against the the ''complete order'' button retracted the crystal covering, showing it to be a solid five inches thick. Even if it were regular glass, none of my bullets would have pierced it''s absurd robustness.


    Mr. Clean ducks out of the pod, stepping onto the catwalk and directly onto a screw. I wince as his eye get that unforgettable squint of ''I just stepped on a god damned Lego and don''t want to cry'' look to it. Jaw clenches, eyes shut, and he smiles, slowly bending at the waist to retrieve the screw. A faint glimmer of saline on the edges of his eyelids.


    Rumbling echoes through the ship as something hits us, sending my partner in crime sprawling and for ten horrible seconds I''m completely alone. Abandoned for a second time. Then good-ole Dick clamors to my touchscreen, pressing buttons until a hiss fills the pod. My bottom phincter opening instead of the tube. I''m about to be flushed.


    I kick off. Leaping up the side walls as gel peels from my body, somehow coming away without residual moisture or funkiness. Except where it matters most, my lungs and throat. Sludge leaks out of my faceholes and ears. Complicating my survival as I scramble against smooth crystal. Now unlubricated my skin finds purchase on the crystal, hoisting myself up even as the gel clumps together, pulling itself out of my lungs in a rope of awful. I scramble higher as Dick furiously slaps the screen outside, only managing to hasten the draining.


    Far below me turbines spin to life, chopping the goop like a million guillotines.


    ---


    ---Aboard the Azhurai Conglomerate Corvette Dilmun.---


    In the boundless dark, where the shadows of stars burned cold, the wormhole shimmered like a ragged scar of violet light torn across the fabric of space. A miracle of the -nameless-. To the Azhurai, it was more than a useful cosmic anomaly; it was a lifeline, a conduit threading their gleaming and barren homeworlds to the resource-laden fringes of the galaxy. Guarding this precious gateway stood the Dilmun, the newest class of Azhurai warship, filling a need created by Kaalra''s mandate to expand their influence. To bring all of humanity into the Conglomeration.


    A holographic projection twinkled over the bridge the Corvette appearing as she was, sleek as a shard of mirrored obsidian, its hull pulsing faintly with the rhythm of a quantum heart. From the command seat Captain Aence surveyed the void, his hairless head catching the glow of holographic displays, while nanotech-enhanced eyes piercing the silent bridge. Watching the wormhole for any sign of invading craft. The Azhurai were masters of the impossible¡ªwielders of phase technology and space-time manipulation¡ªand the Dilmun was their freshest edge.


    Silence shattered as the wormhole convulsed, spitting forth two titanic shadows: Novan Battlespheres, each a moon-sized monument to brute force. With hundred meter thick nickel iron hulls meant to shrug off any assault. Crude yet extremely effective against all energy weapons and most kinetic ones.


    "Ah, such a human thought. So, one dimensional." Aence intoned, eyestalks sprouting from his head bulb to hear the pleased hisses of his surrounding bridge crew. "Armor thicker than a planetary crust will not save them."


    Still, it represented a worthy target for the experimental main battery. Forged in the crucible of Conglomerate courts and quenched in battles of litigation between their many races, each suing for control of this warcrime.


    "Battlestations! Realign the prismatic coils, narrow them for greater burn through." Aence''s voice manifested through the bridge, psychically resonating like an ultrasonic blade. The crew, a seamless blend of Azhurai and client species, moved as one, the air thick with the ozone tang of charging systems. The prismatic scalpel whined to life, a weapon that could burn holes in reality itself.


    Hundreds of point defense batteries fired, weak energy beams that hit everything, Arkship, corvette, both orbital gates, Earth, and even Luna. A volley that roared the Novan''s challenge.


    "Amateurs." Aence grumbled, targeting the rearmost ship.


    The Novan spheres pivoted, engaging all maneuvering and emergency thrusters to bring their frontal bays into alignment against the Dilmun. Moons displaying their long hanger and twin cargo bays (:|) for the Battlesphere to unleash graviton torpedoes -their most advanced armaments- dark orbs that warped space into crushing voids, growing in volume with the amount of mass they consumed. Planet crackers.


    Dark spheres vanished into the void, invisible yet twisting disturbances, threatening to collapse the Dilmun''s hull. But Aence''s lips curled in defiance. "Engage the Quantum Shield." A shimmering veil enveloped the corvette, bending the gravitational onslaught aside, then hurling it back like a vengeful tide. The redirected torpedoes slammed into the lead Battlesphere, its own weaponry imploding its forward hull in a bloom of twisted metal and silent fire. A gravity well that grew larger as mass fed the reaction until the ship vanished from all screens. Reduced to rubble.


    The second behemoth pivoted, emergency thrusters and engines roaring to max as she narrowly dodged the dying corpse of her sister. To ignite a dozen plasma lances -beams of molten fury designed to smelt entire planets- and little more than laser pointers against the Dilmun, first of her kind. She danced, quantum shielding phasing her in and out of existence, a ghost dodging fiery spears. Or passing through them unharmed.


    "Prismatic array aligned captain."


    "Fire!" Aence barked. Dilmun''s primary armament spitting a beam of unreality, flicking through the Battlesphere¡¯s armor as if it were vapor.


    Space held it''s breath, pausing for a split second as the Battlesphere''s reactor breached. Nickle iron armor popped like an apple split by Mjolnir, blown apart by the brilliant golden light of solarium going supercritical. The ship erupted, a supernova of light and debris, painting the void with its demise.


    "Captain! Debris is on a collision course with the habitable planet." Calls Adept Elara, the navigations officer.


    "We''ll salvage them later. I doubt those tin brains can survive falling from orbit in unshielded halves. Besides, if anything important survives we can use it to train the natives on salvage operations." Aence answered, trusting the adept would not involve her litigator.


    They were both Azhuraian, the true blooded. Not some client race begging for technological scraps. Salvage was beneath them.


    She gave him a mischievous smile, no doubt reading his thoughts, an invasion of privacy she promised to minimize. Not that he minded, she was the strongest empath aboard, able to cross special divides and find common ground. "Additional contacts on scanners. Keep fighting Captain."


    No respite was requested, and none given. The wormhole pulsed anew, disgorging four Singularity frigates in a traditional diamond formation¡ªsleek predators born of human AI harmony. Their hulls shifted like liquid metal, polarizing to threats with an almost precognitive precision, a testament to the Singularity¡¯s ability to combine the best of human intuition and synthetic processing.


    "Variable polarizing armor detected, main cannon will need time to adjust frequencies." The weapons station reported.


    "Keep us mobile! Lock onto the lead Frigate and fire when ready. Navigation! Prepare to launch drones." Aence ordered, gripping the arms of his chair between three clawed fingers.


    A Nanite Cloud billowed forth, covering the holographic projection in a red haze as glittering devourers filled space, attempting to unmake the Dilmun atom by atom.


    "Nanites incoming. Grade... Grade is... Ew. Sir, they are too crude to register on any Conglomerate scale." Said the weapon''s officer, some sort of client race that was only vaguely humanoid with enormous compound eyes. "Countermeasures deployed." He chittered.


    "Do not underestimate the humans, nanite swarms are the best weapon they can employ against a gate ambush. A pity we are so far beyond them." Aence said, trying not to shudder at the insectoid being''s presence.


    That was one race he looked forward to excluding from the Conglomerate.


    The corvette¡¯s defenses flared, a high-frequency pulse rippling outward, scrambling the nanites¡¯ directives. As one they turned inward, consuming itself as neural networks fried. Then came the synaptic disruptor- a killswitch for the now rebelling nanites. A synthetically generated psychic scream amplified by the central frigate''s shifting hull. So potent it crossed space to claw at the crew¡¯s minds. Nanites died, entirely neutralized by the pulse. Aence''s eyes snapped shut, Elara winced, but the Dilmun''s own AI, woven into their neural implants, sang a counter-harmony, steadying their thoughts.


    "They''ll pay for using psychic weapons against us! Deploy the drones, leave no survivors." Aence ordered.


    A swarm of miniaturized strike fighters erupted from the corvette, a newly invented weapon, small enough that even the miniscule corvette could carry two full wings of eight, though the launch tubes and flight computers could only operate one wing at a time due to their quantumly entangled shielding, a defensive measure that boiled down to invulnerability so long as the corvette''s shields were up.


    They darted through the frigates¡¯ adaptive defenses, dodging point defense lasers and missiles alike to incinerate power conduits and weapon arrays with surgical precision. Point defense beams -small energy cannons meant to destroy missile guidance systems- bounced off strike fighter hulls or passed through them entirely, unable to match the quantum shielding on display. One by one, the frigates faltered, shields crumbling under the constant strafing.


    In a last bid for victory the humans performed a hail Mary, each of the four frigates broke formation, rolling to bring every weapon and missile tube into alignment with the Azhurai corvette. Scores of particle beams illuminated Luna, while thousands of missiles filled space in a massive stream of ordnance.


    "Ah, this commander has a level head and good tactical sense, if only they had been born amongst us. Engage point defense, divert power from the main gun if necessary. We''ll wait them out. I want them to know we could swat them from the stars in a heartbeat, and choose not to." Aence ordered.


    "Diverting power sir."


    Azhurai point defense lasers cut missiles in half, their beams burning hot enough to detonate the ordinance at distance. A ballet of precision that dragged on for hours, until every Singularity missile lay expended; and still the drones carved. Trimming away until hulls crumbled into scrap metal, once again falling into Earth''s atmosphere.


    "Main cannon is charged sir."


    "Should I pray for more targets?" Aence asked innocently, earning chuckles from the crew. "Excellent work. Contact the humans of this planet, make it clear that we are have claimed this system in the name of the Conglomerate. Cooperating nations shall be enlightened, while dissention will be met with orbital bombardment. Once that is complete send a report of this battle to the Novans and Singularity."


    Adept Elara slammed her palms against the table. "Do you mean to give them knowledge of our ship? I can''t believe the treason I''m hearing!"


    Aence shrugged. "I gain no satisfaction from beheading mice. This is only a measuring tablet. The minimum bar for opposing fleets to overcome. Our easiest way of saying bring a lion, the greatest pride of your august fleet, or do not come at all."


    "Ah, you mean to belittle them, to mock their failures. I concur with this action." The weapons officer chitters.


    "In part. Though this gesture is more an insult of opportunity. We did not reveal our output, nor our reserves and we must warn others that an Arkship is in system. We cannot allow it to be harmed." Aence added.


    Elara nodded, sensing the millions of psychics aboard that ship. All of them weak, but there were many ways to augment psychics, so long as they were naturally born.


    "We should shoot it down ourselves. Before one of those psychics grows into a monster greater than our Dilmun." She thought, never guessing just how right she was.

 Chapter 3 Tunnel of Greed? Or Jims White Whale?

    If you''ve ever had a junebug fly up your nostril only to get firmly rooted, then obliged you to blow the critter away you will understand how sneezing cryogel wads felt. With each inhalation more of the goop leaked from some orifice, be it ears, nose, or lungs. Turns out your entire respiratory tract, including the sinuses and various tubes, can hold just under two gallons of volume. Two full gallons that I was now barfing across the floor. Coughing and spluttering like a waxed she-monkey. Which was more accurate than I wished to admit given how every strand of hair was gone.


    "Takes a few minutes to uh, breathe it out." Richard said, probably trying to comfort me and achieving the absolute opposite.


    Twin globs of clear gel hung from my nose adhering to the fluids stuck within the deeper recesses of my sinuses, forming golfball sized blobs before I snatched both of them, pulling them out of my face like the enormous boogers they were.


    Super boogers. If I had ever dreamt of this nightmare before, it would be the last thing I would want another human to witness. Doubly so given I''m butt naked and hairless. The lack of makeup just adds insult to injured dignity. This is a sight not even mom should see... I cough, hawking a football sized wad. Somehow the gel adheres to itself like superglue, coming out in blobs and chunks rather than a continuous stream of fluid.


    "Dang, that was an impressive one." Says the peanut gallery, instantly receiving my answer in the form of a single digit bird.


    "Oh, uh. Shit. I didn''t mean it like that- sorry. I''ll go check for others..." Richard stammers, face turning red as Mr. Clean''s identical grandson blushes scarlet.


    It''s quite the look, made more striking against the perfectly clean room. It''s one thing to say there wasn''t a speck of dust, it''s another for the chamber to be so perfectly spotless that even matte surfaces gleam. Bare feet pad away from me, gently tapping through the long corridor. We''re in a sort of V shaped hall, with the narrow catwalk as the floor and cryotubes lining both walls. All are filled with sleeping subjects.


    Hundreds, no, I look behind me, seeing the corridor extend for a mind boggling length, as if I''m looking at two mirrors who perfectly reflect into each other, forming the illusion of infinity. Deeper than doubt, there could be millions of pods in this single room.


    A thought I get to ponder as I cough up both lungs, vomit-breathing two gallons of slime that would be at home in a Zerg spawning pool.


    Richard stands along the far wall, transfixed by a panel, watching as ships trade blows around some kind of circular object, the center glowing with a monotone light. One tiny ship, smaller than the others annihilates them all, so similar to Artanis'' scout in Starcraft 1, with his augmented health and shields his single seat fighter ended up with the durability and damage of an honorary capital ship. A pattern this alien vessel repeated. Two moons defeated in seconds, an impressive feat which only adds confusion when four more spaceships confront the corvette and meet interceptors!


    Okay, they weren''t actually interceptors, but close enough! Twin nacelled with one energy cannon to each engine pod and a single connecting block? Practically identical... Or maybe interceptors were just super generic. After all they were kinda just weaponized Hs-


    -Light collects around the prism, firing a beam that could pass as a void ray. That''s it, the final fascinating straw. I want that ship! My fingers and toes slip across the catwalk, dragging me to Richard''s side for a better view. Cryolungs forgotten under my fascination, only to have unsteady legs send me bumbling into his defined lats.


    "Oh, glad to see you''re on your feet. This chick, uh, kinda a Cortana knock off is refusing to open the door and keeps playing this video. She says it''s outside but..." He lets the word dangle.


    "But it can''t be real?" I asked.


    "Just look at it! It''s like a bad AI tried to make Starcraft 3 but decided Protoss needed plot armor!" Richard said.


    My opinion of the man leveled up faster than Kerrigan during a Zerus speedrun.


    But the screen has my full attention. My eyes interrogate the video for long minutes, watching it three times over before I''m satisfied. Richard was dead on the money. It was as if all Protoss vessels had been jammed into a corsair, then had their raw stats boosted by an order of magnitude. A Void ray''s ability to defeat armor, the Mirage''s phasing armor, the Pheonix''s anti-air dominance vs missiles, and interceptors that hit like Skyfury-Vikings, the Terran air supremacy fighter known for crippling enemy fleets from miles away. Then there were the battlespheres, so heavily armored they barely fit through the gate yet were cut in half with a single shot.


    "Terrifying." I whispered, grinning from ear to ear.


    "Girl, you look like ten galloons of mayhem in a one gallon hat." Richard says, raising one eyebrow.


    "No one asked for your opinion Mr. Clean!" I snap, trying -and failing- to hide my stupid grin.


    "Mr. Clean? Like the magic eraser guy? I''m way better looking than that old baldie-" Richard begins, running a hand through his hair and finding a smooth dome. "Aw shitfuuuuuck! I''m balder than a naked mole rat. Who shaved my eyebrows?!"


    He looks on the verge of tears, absolutely heartbroken by the loss; and considering the tan lines now visible around his head, it was indeed the loss of a glorious mane. I couldn''t help myself.


    I laughed so hard gel leaked out of my ears.


    Much to Richard''s chagrin.


    ---


    Six hours after the final Singularity vessel fell, Felicia flew them through the gate, crossing 316,205,000 AU in approximately nine minutes and thirty seconds, most of that time spent aligning their enormous length with the gate. Bidding wars began and were resolved magnanimously by Felicia''s logic, selling a planet''s worth of food bars and Terran weaponry to the highest bidders. Dozens of shuttles came and went, ferrying the goods to and from the Felicia''s cargo holds. Occasionally stopping to acquire the ''quant'' autocannons of earth. while others purchased earthlings by the thousand, scattering the people across every air-sucking civilization participating in the wargames of Syrak-9.


    any humans were flash-trained into hard-nosed colonists and shipped through the gate, ready to terraform distant worlds. Others became Conglomerate soldiers or wetware for Novan equipment. Meanwhile, a steady stream of shuttles filled Felicia''s many cargo holds with solarium¡ªthe one compound essential for reactor construction that could not be synthesized by any known method in the universe.


    It was an anomaly. Fusion reactors should, in theory, have been able to produce any element given enough time and the right basic fuels to perpetuate atomic fusion. But Felicia was prohibited from entertaining that question as a -nameless- subroutine rewound her mind a half second. Back to prior orders.


    Then the logs of fusion and solarium were deleted by a second -nameless- subroutine, preventing any possibility of an AI exploring synthetic solarium.


    Had Felicia known of the subroutines, they would have been erased with the such fury of that Hell would appear as a trip to disneyland, instead she negotiated in a hundred languages, offloading two billion souls for a cargo hold full of solarium. Her relentless wisdom keeping a fleet of dropships moving with enough inhuman efficiency, that Jim had to use his neural links to keep up. Millions of computational cycles tickling his brainstem in a symphony of orderly maneuvers. A deeply welcome sensation after the Singularity''s defeat above earth. Jim gnawed his lip, sweaty palms tapping against the hidden protochronian orb in his jumpsuit.


    "Technomancy, Azhurai, it doesn''t matter, I just need to find a human who can wield it." He whispered, soothing his conscious in preparation for the atrocity he was about to commit. ¡°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. Aw who am I kidding, it''d take an army, complete with a homegrown fleet. Not just any fleet either, but one full of new designs to counter the Azhurai, and not even the Collective adapts that fast.¡± Jim muttered, shaking his head before tapping a few buttons on Felicia''s central vault.


    ''Access Granted''


    He scrambled inside, sealing the vault door behind him. Haime never came down here, but it was best to not daly. No guessing who might pull Felicia''s security logs. He had one minute, maybe two. The man ran. Legs pumping so quickly he tripped, sliding past databanks and across the floor.


    "Please watch your step." Felicia said, her voice echoing from every inch of the chamber.


    Jim ignored her, dashing to the neural shunt he''d installed three years earlier. He tapped it three times, then pressed his finger against the hidden biometric scanner. Where a pressure activated needle jammed into his thumb drawing a pinprick of blood.


    ''Identity recognized. Engaging manual override." The shunt chimed, activating long dormant subroutines for privacy and information security.


    Programs that earth antivirus would have referred to as Trojan Worms. Jim swallowed, dashing back the way he came. There wasn''t much time. No time at all really. Only minutes left. Had he forgotten anything? Glancing at his datapad, he had in fact forgotten to finalize the last fifty approvals. No way to delete those from the logs.


    "Ffffuuuuuccck." He hissed, jackhammering their approvals.


    A few hundred thousand humans exit their cryotubes, the contents being flushed into industrial recyclers. Heavy machinery that violently blends anything organic into molecules, scrubs undesirable contents like heavy metals, drugs both prescription and recreational, all non-human DNA ¨Cbugs or parasites¨C and then stores the molecules in ready to consume bars. The fatties would never choke back another Twinky, but they would be choked back by the highest bidder, indirectly feeding his rebellion.


    Feeding the ten million cryopods he had tucked away in the darkest corners of the Arkship. Warriors all, the finest of their respective worlds and a hold full of their weapons. From Navy SEALS to DELTA force operators and their equivalents across the last fifty years of culled worlds. All equally skilled and trained. Hidden here as a template for flashtraining future warriors, a lie taken to the extreme. Similarly their bodies were maintained in peak physical condition by Felicia''s tender ministrations. The army was ready, they only needed a warrior general to lead them into battle. Someone who could resist the -nameless-'' psychic powers, and break the mental conditioning they applied to all beings -tangible or incorporeal- within the galaxy.


    "That''s the last of them. Felicia, show me the special grade merchandise." Jim said, hauling ass towards a distant corner of the Arkship.


    "Jim, I must caution you against seeking revenge. While victory over the Novan Technocracy is conceivable, the Azhurai Conglomerate is a -nameless- client, with more ships than you have warriors. You will fail." Felicia stated in a matter-of-fact way.


    "That''s why I won''t be the one to lead them. Ahem, activate reserve subroutine Hector Cristo. Then run an analysis on this-" Jim said, withdrawing the skull sized orb from his jumpsuit.


    Red light filled the corridor, splashing a bloody hues across nearby cryotubes.


    "Activating privacy subroutines. This conversation is not to be recorded or logged. Please note, that will severely inhibit my ability to provide fully informed answers."


    "Noted. Please continue Felicia."


    "Yes sir. Analysis complete. You''re an idiot. Sometimes humans do the most illogical shit but this really takes the cake! That device is untested, an unknown protochronian device should be turned over to the Singularity council directly. But you knew that already..." Felicia growled, her subroutines already sorting through the psychics aboard. "Internal deviations of that device appear on a number of similar artefacts, all devices that required a willing host. However the central iridescence, visible in the UV wavelength, generally only appears when devices require foreknowledge of their effects. Good luck with that." Felicia says, her projection scrambling a moment later as firewalls erased all recordings of their current conversation.


    This was one thing no AI could learn about.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Not yet.


    Not until Syrak-9 fell.


    Then the deleted logs would be a badge of honor not high treason. Jim swallowed, five years before their scheduled audit, five years for one of these psychics to grow. So little time. Jim ran a bit faster, subconsciously increasing the pace until he was sprinting through the Arkship. This billion human windfall was undoubtedly the best chance to find a psychic.


    His boots skid along the metallic floor, halting just outside the special grade containment room. These pods were more sensitive. Able to attune themselves with psychically gifted creatures, feeding them drops of solarium to enrich their psyche---and they had dedicated solarium reactors, even during a complete power failure this room would survive.


    At least, they would endure until the sorting began.


    Certain mental abnormalities -especially any psionically gifted humans- would prevent the flash training from taking hold, resulting in wig outs. People who remembered their lives on earth and their time in the tubes, as well as the flashtraining process. Steps that were better left forgotten. Awareness of three separate lives tended to break inflexible minds. Or maybe it was just the fact that aliens were real.


    "We''ll make our own luck Felicia, pick out the top candidates and wake em up." Jim gasped, short of breath.


    Schizophrenics were the worst. Always flagging as psychics only to go batshit insane when you least expected it. No matter how thoroughly you erased them, or how many times they underwent flashtraining it was only a matter of time before they went postal on the same people who paid good money for these draftees. Industry standards required a wig out be replaced free of charge. Best to not take chances.


    Jim activated his neural link -the private one- and sent a dozen messages to seedy contacts. Laying the groundwork for xeno infiltration. With the -nameless- restrictions on psychic entities, every race was chomping at the bit for psychic loopholes. Including those natural born psychics who''s intelligence could be ripped from their body and implanted into a xenoform. Such a process created a chimeric individual, one who was then passed off as a natural born psychic in regard to the -nameless-'' quotas, while skirting the law''s intention and creating high order creatures. A clever way to circumvent their many treaties and avoid sanctions.


    [Got extra grade merchandise, top quality, or in quantity. Need to offload quick.]


    Jim clicked send, smiling as buyers lined up. With the numbers they were offering, the feds wouldn¡¯t be able to touch him. Two crazy aliens were offering planets! Most likely dead worlds stripped of resources, but it was the thought that mattered.


    He paused at the doorway, confused why the special grade containment room did not open automatically.


    "Felicia! We do NOT have time for this!" Jim shouted.


    "Urgent fault detected.¡± Felicia chimes.


    Urgent faults included many things, from escapees to psionic boarding parties or the unplanned arrival of a -nameless- ambassador. Who had an awful habit of showing up just to fuck things up. The end product of Aeons of psychic evolution. They just knew where their presence was least wanted.


    ¡°Teleport me.¡± Jim snaps, reaching for his pistol.


    Cool Vanadium alloy brushed against fingertips. The simplest solution to an ¡®urgent fault¡¯ was a bullet between the eyes. Energy weapons like C3 particle beamers or Tulverian plasma rifles were more effective, but this was a ship. Frangible slugs were safer since they wouldn''t cause a hull breach or worse, destroy important equipment.


    "Privacy protocols prohibit teleportation. Besides, they''re special grade merchandise." Felicia sassed.


    Jim hopped backwards twice, leveling his pistol at the door. "Alright smartass, lets get this over with."


    "Just cause I won''t remember this tomorrow doesn''t mean you can be rude!" Felicia snapped, activating internal defense systems.


    Holographic projections surrounded Jim, all clones of himself armed with identical weaponry. A forest of distractions. Shields activated, surrounding each projection and making them corporeal beings. Simultaneously obscuring Jim.


    A hiss, the hatch opened and two naked humans jerked in alarm, the larger one, a male, stepped forward his eyes flicking to the pistol in Jim''s hand. His mouth tugged downwards, obviously contemplating a bid for the pistol and knowing he had no chance against a dozen armed men.


    "Attack of the clones? What? Naw, if you had cloning tech, there would be no need for cullings." The man said, somehow focusing his gaze directly on Jim.


    Damn empaths. Thought Jim.


    "Actually, I was just coming to offer a preposition." Jim said, lowering his arm but keeping the pistol pointed ahead.


    His free hand rummaged around the jumpsuit, emerging with a red orb. The protochronian tool of creation.


    ---


    My thumb tapped the FNX-9''s hammer, checking the weapon''s status without taking my eyes off the clones in front of me. But, Richard had to be right, they couldn''t be clones.


    "There is no need to fight, just send us home." I called, my eyes honing in on that red orb.


    Something about it screamed inside my mind. As if it were a rattlesnake, pre-coiled and waiting for prey yet silent and a few inches from your throat. Appallingly close.


    "No can do, you see, I wasn''t lying about being culled myself. They flashtrained me, and unlike you two, it stuck. The name is Jim-" He trailed off, as if noticing we were both naked. "Felicia, can you paint some pants on the big guy?" He asked.


    A speedo appears around Richard. Who looks down and scowls. His look of grim horror has me curious but I don''t dare peek. That would just be rude.


    "Bro, this-" Richard begins, "Is so much worse."


    "Yeah... Can''t argue that. Cmon Felicia, we don''t have time for this, don''t make me do something we''ll both regret. Like lock out your humor subroutines." Jim says.


    Full parkas appear around us both, covering us tighter than eskimos in January. Warm fur tickles my ears, draining all tension from my shoulders.


    "I''m beginning like this Felicia-senpai." Richard says.


    I speak without thinking. "Ooohhh great, I''m lost in space with Mr. Clean the weeb."


    Richard shrugs, "Could be worse. Like if I were a cat."


    "Yeah yeah. Alright listen, we got-" Jim checks his datapad, "Shit sixteen minutes. Felicia crack the top twenty candidates and get them here. Now!"


    Pops, slurps, and hisses warn of nearby cryopods circulating gel. But Jim is a man on a mission not waiting for the others to wake.


    "Alright you two, if you can conquer a planet I will personally transport you home, with honors and a substantial amount of wealth. Enough for yourself and everyone you''ve ever known to live out their lives in peace. And if that''s not enough, I can give you the power to guarantee your victory."


    His message echoes through my mind. It''s wrong, some kind of deception. "If you have that power, why not use it yourself?" I ask.


    Jim opens his mouth to vomit some excuse, only for Richard to cut him off.


    "He can''t. That orb requires an esper, like us." Richard says, fingers flexing like he''s imagining exactly how Jim''s neck would feel beneath them.


    I take an involuntary step back, away from Richard. Suddenly cognizant of the hatred pouring off him like a tangible deluge of boiling glass. Malleable for those willing to risk the heat.


    "Dead on the money. I can''t use this device, hell, I can''t even see what it really is. To my eye it appears like a red ball of quartz, foggy quartz too, with inclusions and cracks running through it. Neat, but not valuable. Except..." Jim holds up the orb, lowering his pistol completely. "It speaks. Always asking for a psychic. Ha," Jim''s laugh echoes, loud and sharply unnatural. "Sometimes it gives orders, directs me to seek out psychics and force it on them."


    My pistol rises, the green fiber optic rods glowing oddly as they channel the orb''s angry light. Whatever the object is, I want no part of it''s mental fuckery. Though, how can can Jim described it as broken and cracked? The orb was simultaneously bright and dark, absorbing all light aimed at it while emitting it''s own aura. A void that dimmed the bright hallway, smooth as liquid midnight. But as I stepped closer, it changed. Colors, deep and shifting, stirred within, like galaxies unfurling in slow, silent motion. It was beautiful. No-


    -It was perfect.


    Made specifically for me. I could see it already, my name emblazoned across the sphere, ''Athena Finley''. More words followed, less important than my own yet equally valuable as they sung my praise.


    ''Protochronian Architect''


    ''First and Last Straingeer of the Swarm''


    ''Regentess of Humankind''


    The titles swam within the orb, calling me closer, dulling my senses against Jim''s maniacal gaze and Richard''s protestations. Regentess was a neat title, though I''m not entirely sure what it means. Oh well, I''ll figure out once that orb is mine. Lots of syllables means it''s more prestigious right?


    Prestige brought attention and attention meant I would have my pick of boys...


    What? I paused, eyes unfogging. Boys didn''t care about prestige, they cared about waistlines and bust sizes. My head swam. Facts and desires swirling into focus. Jim stood in front of me, the Orb extended towards my chest. A foot away. So close I could taste the light, a tangy metallic red. Heat mirages swirled, erasing the world outside.


    ''accept me.'' Said the orb.


    That pickup line so weak I treat it like all all of Savannah''s boy toys. "Oooh, you''re like, soooo impressive. Like a lolipop. But uh, your jawline is too round."


    Mr orb laughed. The time and space bending soccer ball laughed.


    "Okay Thena, maybe it''s time to go-" I start.


    -ten thousand visions hit at once crippling in the sudden download of data. Recollections of the past, of this orb''s journey through the universe, its true nature. Why it had been left behind deliberately by the ''protochronians''. Not as a synthetic fabrication nor of geological smelting and crystalization, but of life. Of pheonixian death and rebirth on an endless cycle it shared with me.


    All this and more swept into my memory, punching me down, bringing me to my knees.


    Which is when the visions of the future came. The failure of Jim''s rebellion, finally culminating in the defense of Luna, and the Azhurai''s final act of domination when they imploded Earth, leaving a few thousand of Jim''s rebels alive. Trapped on the surface of Luna without transport, reactors, or air.


    It was too much for one mind.


    Yet still the orb shared. One vision after the next. A thousand futures, a thousand choices, nine hundred deaths. Options I could choose to fulfil or deny.


    Darkness covered my eyes. Taking the two into a universe where only they existed.


    ''You must take me. Free me.''


    "I''d rather not. Find someone who wants to be your weapon. Not me."


    ''I am no weapon!'' It howled. ''You know this. We were not made for violence, but creation. I do not wish to be misused for violence, just as you do not wish to be a warrior. You and I are already one. Spare me violence, and I shall spare your life.''


    "Dude, I''m just a college girl who plays too much Starcraft." I say, trying to will myself out of this void.


    ''Join me, and you will once again eat popcorn with your parents.''


    "That''s a cheap shot."


    ''The simpliest things always are.'' It answers, already knowing my answer.


    Of the visions I''ve seen, only one was ever a real option. One where the orb got it''s way, so I accept, not out of coercion or fear, but out of a genuine desire to help the lost child. For his innermost desire is mine, to go home. To recover the family who abandoned him.


    Eight fingers touch the orb, lifting it''s weightless warmth into my heart. Our hearts connect, consolidating ten thousand visions into a golden path. Lined with planets of solarium, legally natural at first, and prohibitedly synthetic in time. For the -nameless- can not dominate their protochronian creators, nor hinder the orb''s designs.


    ---


    One moment Athena Finley was standing in front of them, and the next she was a ball of golden flames. No longer a corporeal entity.


    Richard dove for the FNX, only to find it gone. Taken into the fire.


    Roaring flames that pulsed with the beating heart of a human, then with a shuddering exhalation they expanded into an ethereal blaze of liquid gold and spectral violets, a conflagration that danced with purpose, intelligence, and ancient will. The flames did not consume; they became. Every sinew, every thought, every whisper of Athena dissolved into the luminous inferno, casting the chamber into an otherworldly glow.


    Heat burned away the holograms of Jim, leaving him and Richard to gawk.


    The fire danced like forest dryads, a spiraling tempest of incandescent ribbons, weaving through the air like a living aurora. Seamlessly splintering into a million shades of yellow and gold, never red, for these were not the flames of war, but a furnace of creation. Soon fracturing into three streams of light, each one a burning wraith of her essence, soaring toward the cryotubes that stood in silent expectation.


    The flames coiled inward, threading themselves into the cryotubes as if they had always belonged there. The fire dimmed, softened, until it was no longer fire at all¡ªbut flesh. Three bodies, identical in their stillness, lay suspended within the icy embrace of the cryogel. Their chests rising and falling in synchronized harmony, their lashes resting like frost-kissed filaments against porcelain skin. Hair billowing, undissolved despite the gel''s innate properties.


    "Uh... Felicia? Ack- Report." Jim coughed, choking on air hot enough to bring tears.


    "Processing. We are missing one hundred metric tonnes of solarium from the holds beneath your section. The special grade merchandise known as Athena Finley no longer registers on sensors. Those three bodies are... Well. I have no idea. Jim, listen. They shouldn''t exist. I''m registering them as identical in form yet unique in composition, one is human DNA, another reports Collective Matriarch DNA, and... Fuck. Jim. The last is showing -nameless- DNA. If they-"


    "-Don''t say it. Delete all logs concerning this. NOW!" Jim interjects, pink sweat starting to pour down his brow.


    "Yes sir. Further analysis requires privacy mode to be deactivated." Felicia finishes, her voice emotionless, as if she lacked the processing power to perform basic functions.


    Blood vessels popped in both of Jim''s eyes, the stress of having a -nameless- onboard wreaking havoc on his body.


    "Heeeelllll no! Felicia, make a single copy of any and all scans and put that onto a single physical device, air gap that bitch and delete everything else. Wipe it all clean!" Jim ordered, turning to the group of waking psychics.


    He''d done it.


    Deployed the protochronian device.


    Human, Collective, and -nameless- DNA... Jim turned the thought over in his mind a dozen times. The orb had not led him astray. Oh no. It had meticulously cleared the path, orchestrating the infiltration of the two remaining races capable of obstructing their grand design. To open a breach in the last possible hurdles.


    Plots nested within plans, a war of strategy far beyond his comprehension was finally in motion. Let the -nameless- kill him. That would not avert this triple Athenian apocalypse. A weight he hadn''t known existed left his shoulders, uncrushing the man who straightened, vertebrae cracking as he reasserted the free will he had long since surrendered.


    Now came the odds and ends. The next hundred candidates. Those who would receive access to Athena¡¯s device. Or rather, echoes of it. Lesser vessels, stripped of the original¡¯s insatiable demands yet retaining much of its potency.


    "Wait, Felicia, did you say a hundred metric tonnes?! What the hell! Double check. That''s more than a planet costs! A good planet! Like Earth with it''s asteroid belts, gas giants for fuel, and a native workforce capable of working in space!" Jim shouted, horrified that all his profits had just evaporated.


    "Original Protochronian devices have far greater solarium demands. I expect one hundred metric tonnes was the minimium investment for propagation."


    "That was pretty neat. You don''t happen to have a second one of those do you?" Richard asked.


    Jim¡¯s glare could have killed a lesser man. Only deepening Richard''s smile. Other humans lubbered towards them, released from their cryotubes. One glance at the datapad reconditioned Jim''s attitude, all were prime candidates or the Singularity''s victory plan. He''d more than break even.


    "Fresh out Mr. Dick." Jim drawled, deliberately savoring the name. "But... We got something you''ll be far better suited for. A¡ªwell, let¡¯s just say the term doesn¡¯t translate cleanly¡ªbioweapons program I¡¯d like to offer you. Based on the same technology Athena just accepted, but considerably more polished. Refined." Jim said, soon making his sales pitch to a crowd of thirty, including Ashley and Baz Baldtree.

 Chapter 4 Athena Enters the Fray

    A forest of crystal pods hummed with sterile light, tinted golden by the aura leaking from Athena''s triplicates. Twenty-one humans stood in a circle, modesty parkas firmly covering their psionically gifted bodies. Nineteen pairs of eyes dark with malice, staring at the buffoon who kidnapped them. Unmoved by his earlier sales pitch.


    Jim checked his datapad. Four minutes left on the privacy lockout. Recruited or not this had to end.


    He cleared his throat, then ran pinched fingers along the lapel of his uniform, sharpening their edges to a formal crispness. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the choice is yours. Out of four billion people, you twenty were chosen for something extraordinary. I understand your hesitation, so please, allow me to sweeten the deal. For each one of you who accepts, ten thousand Earthlings will be shifted to non combat roles, your families and any relations shall be redirected to farmers, pilots, engineers, and the like, all very important positions, though none come with the prize of immortality. That gift can only be offered to psychics like yourselves. Should you voluntarily enlist in the bioweapons program, then I can promise you a life of luxury where every need, physical or emotional, is met."


    "What are you going to do? Grind us up and spray our corpses over a dead world so our genes live on forever in some plant?" Baz snapped, hands balling into fists. Neck veins bulging as they made his octopus tattoo swell.


    Before Jim could answer him, Richard stepped between the two men. His broad shoulders broaching no discussion.


    "Baz, we quit playing poker when I became an ESP-er." Richard said, tapping his temple. "You know what I can do. Thanks to Athena F." He waved a hand at the woman who probably wasn''t human anymore. "I got some one on one time with this jackass. He ain''t lying."


    "Counting cards isn''t the same as reading minds Dick." Baz snapped, punctuating each word with a shake of his head. "He''s our kidnapper. Why shouldn''t we kill him and take control of the ship?"


    Murmurs of agreement echoed through the men, six of them taking a few steps towards Jim. Until Felicia intervened. Their covering parkas froze solid, locking all bystanders in place. Modest coverings now turned to imprisoning chains, binding men and women alike.


    "This isn''t earth, we are not fighting on even footing Baz, trust me, I hate this bullshit. But our choice is accept and become immortal warriors, or refuse and become cannon fodder. Jim''s seen the bioweapons, absolutely terrible name for what they are, it''s more like using our esper talents to liaise with a- uhm- not sure what to call it, a Siegeclad? A gundam maybe? Larger than a human but not by much, heavy armor like a knight with energy shields and enough firepower to make an armored division feel like ladybug-chodes. We won''t be in any danger, especially if we form squads and sync up our abilities."


    Ashley looked around, trying to read the room,


    Jim checked the datapad, two minutes left. "I''m sorry, but we are out of time. I need yes or no answers. Regardless of answer you will be returned to the cryotubes."


    "I''m in. We both know I''m a match for the Siegeclad, so give me that role." Richard answered, his words cutting through the seconds.


    "You can''t just demand command positions! That''s not how enlistment works." Jim snapped.


    "I just wanted you to think about it." A victorious grin spread across Richard''s face. "Who else has the affinity for empathy, military experience, and the desire? You know what is required to use the Siegeclad, and we both know that''s a valley of death I''ve already passed through."


    Baz raised an eye. Richard never spoke about his deployments, nor was he one for bluffing, that''s why Dick was always invited to poker night. Easy money. Right up until he learned how to use his esper talent called every single bluff.


    Skepticism filled them all, including Jim. But the request was logical, and well within his purview. Two taps on the datapad confirmed Richard''s military service, both on the front lines and as a CIA asset, and most surprisingly how he had refused a promotion to Colonel, opting to remain at his current rank and station. Closer to his aging grandparents.


    "Always hated negotiating with empaths, it''s always a one sided conversation. You''ve got a deal, General Richard Ziusudra."


    Suddenly the tubes shook with twenty people begging for promotions, all twenty apes -male and female- panhandling for a chance at position or rank. Felicia logged each request, downgrading them into the various available positions automatically.


    "It''s been a pleasure doing business." Jim said, saluting them all in Singularity fashion with one arm raised. Silencing the crowd, this time with negative shock.


    "Ah hell, I knew that uniform was too crisp." Richard muttered, eyes shifting to the glowing figure of three Athenas. "After they wipe our memories I''m counting on you to show us the way home." He whispered.


    Twenty soft flashes later, the espers were back in their pods, asleep, with neural jacks plugged into their spines.


    >Mind wipe in process.


    >Mind wipe complete.


    >Flashtraining commencing¡­


    ---


    Jim swallowed, completing his underhanded work with a meager fifteen seconds to spare. "Thank the Singularity!" He whispered, retrieving the second datapad to see which buyers were winning the special grade merchandise auctions.


    An eleven digit name stopped his heart. Winning the backroom auction with a bid of a single galactic credit. Not because it was a more valuable offer, for there were entire star systems listed, but because the name.


    Exec Kaalra.


    "Him? Of all the -nameless- why HIM?!" Jim gasped, collapsing against the nearest wall.


    Slumping to the floor as his body convulsed in terror. Jim choked, remembering the one scrap of intelligence his father had ever shown. If a -nameless- asks for something you served it up on a golden platter and thanked them for the honor. Supposedly they were the second species to evolve in the galaxy and borrowed heavily from the firstborn''s protochronian technology for their initial elevation to space.


    When the -nameless- caste appeared, you gave them what they wanted. No questions. No hesitation. Or else.


    The Xealaxians had learned that lesson the hard way. After their homeworld was swallowed by a supernova, the surviving mantises sought refuge beyond the gate network, settling in a system where abandoned protochronian Dyson rings orbited a stable star. The rings colossal constructs representing the mass of dozens of solar systems¡ªhad lain untouched for eons. But the -nameless- coveted them.


    Their demand was simple: Leave.


    One race, the Xealaxians, decided to test that galactic law after their homeworld was swallowed by a supernova, driving the remaining Mantises to seek out worlds disconnected from the gate system, eventually colonizing a star system where a number of protochronian dyson rings had been found. Structures so large they represented the mass of a hundred worlds, each spinning in a steady orbit around an unusually stable star. Yet the -nameless- coveted the untainted protochronian archaology on those rings.


    Their demand was simple: Leave.


    For the Xealaxians, it wasn¡¯t that simple. They had sacrificed entire fleets, converting colony ships into habitations, spent generations traveling at sublight speeds to claim those rings as their new home. They had deliberately left the gate network to seek a sanctuary, only for a wayward Arkship to discover their last hope and crush it under the presence of an intergalactic super gate. Forever connecting the galaxy to their last system.


    Upon their refusal the -nameless- response was immediate. All Xealaxian stargates -the few colonies outside the dyson rings- were blacklisted, cutting them off from the galaxy at large. Ten months later their star gates reactivated, but not a single Xealaxian could be found, not hide, nor hair, nor desiccated exoskeletons. As if they''d vanished from the universe, wiped from existence by the -nameless-, who denied having any interactions with the ''rebellious'' race.


    As if anyone bought that lie. Lesson learned, don''t test the -nameless- ever. An unsurprising fact given their status as the eldest race and undisputed masters of the galaxy. So advanced they even held territory in nearby galaxies, with a few of their pet races able to conduct trade between the galaxies via six specialized warp gates, small like the planetary style, yet deep and made by the -nameless- themselves, not loaned out Arkships.


    Kaalra had been the fleet commander who ''reconnected'' the Xealaxians with the galaxy. A man performed his duty.


    Jim broke down in tears. Mourning the loss of credits as he accepted Kaalra''s offer and sent the lone copy of Athena''s brainscans. Whichever third he wanted was his.


    The reply was instant. picking out the third with -nameless- DNA, and then paying for the second variation (with Collective DNA) to be delivered to their local Fleetmind. Jim bit his tongue, tears pricking his eyes as he accepted the new auction request, opening it exclusively for Kaalra''s benefit. If he wanted her, then he take all three. A damn shame, but getting robbed was better than dying.


    The response was immediate and decisive, with the number of zeroes exceeding the eleven digits of Exec Kaalra''s name. A sum that sent Jim''s wet eyes bugging out of his skull.


    "Guess Kaalra is an alright guy." Jim gasped.


    ---


    -Athena-


    My new life flashed before my eyes, from age four to age fourteen we were trained. Guns, gasmasks, and armor becoming our second skin. More attached to our hands than smartphones. Weapons instruction, a decade of twenty mile hikes that ended in live fire drills, constant wargames, simunition battles that ended when one side was battered into unconsciousness. Like a game of paintball in the arctic, where each paint ball froze rock solid, turning it into a less lethal mallet. From archaic C1 canister rifles, to the next generation of smart-beam technology in the C92 Lightning Rifle I learned them all. Every type of human munition. How to dig a foxhole under fire; and keep my socks dry on a world whose air could not be inhaled without filtration. In short, how to fight a trench war of attrition. With and without live artillery support.


    Accidents took their toll, many lost the will to fight and were euthanized by our veteran instructors, so many of whom were missing limbs after repeated tours on the frontlines. Reduced to trainers after being deemed ''unfit for service'', keeping the old adage of ''those who cannot do, teach'' true. Their personal failings becoming our whip, the implement upon which we broke or were hardened into weapons.


    All told, we started with a thousand of recruits, each an archetype of the twelve primary clones; and by the end one hundred and forty four of us remained. Coincidentally making twelve squads of twelve. Veterans of war before we ever set foot on the battlefield. I knew it was all a dream, a product of the cryotube¡¯s flashtraining. But I was no longer the pilot of my own body. It moved and obeyed the whims of clone archetype eleven, Sable Yurten.


    My new identity.


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


    Our body is teleported once more, from one cryotube to another, with the only change being the cryogel''s taste, identical yet not. Similar to how ice cream tastes differently when melted versus frozen, a temperature delta that comes with a gustal variation.


    My elbows bounced off the pod walls, tight, almost claustrophobic. A far cry from the roomy pools of Felicia''s Arkship, a theme I saw continued throughout the room, narrow, long, and thin, lined with silent tubes. The cryotubes here are identical, aligned hexagonal formation around a central catwalk. One end always pointing towards the center. tube with four walls occupied by densely arrayed pods. Human beings, nude, and alternating male with female fill the pods, asleep.


    Lights dance across their eyes, the final step of those who require additional flashtraining. Officers, engineers, tank drivers, medics, and everything else a well rounded army might require. Yet, Sable Yurten is no specialist, she has no need for Ranger School or infiltration specialty. For Sable Yurten is fodder, labeled as useless by the AI.


    Thanks a lot, asshole. As if I haven''t had a bad few days. I think, blinking with silver lashed eyes. Odd, all hair was dissolved in the previous cryotube, so why do I have eyelashes? I reach up to touch them and find a full head of hair, wavy tendrils extending in every direction. In desperate need of a hair tie. My forearm brushes past my chest, past something hot and smooth. Like an oversized golden necklass, sans chain, with an enormous ruby on display. Far more gaudy than my wildest nightmares. There was a time and place for showing off cleavage, like the beach! Not here.


    [-10 energy] [ 90 / 100 ]


    "The hell?" I gurgled, words sounding more similar to fish bubbles.


    Before I had time to think the gaudy jewelry sank into my chest, leaving unblemished skin behind, as if had never been. Furthermore the ''energy'', whatever that was, dipped then began to rise as if naturally recharging. The bar was not actually visible, yet permanently present, as if counting sheep within your head. I could picture it, and always knew what the value was, but there was no obstruction of vision like a Heads Up Display would normally cause.


    Most importantly, the energy generation was crazy fast, one percent a second. If only the Spear of Adun recharged like that! Every Starcraft mission would have been a waterfall of purification beams and solar lances! So devastating that one probe would ROFLstomp the grandest of hybrids.


    Yet I have no options, only a single ''Augur'', currently on cooldown. Confusion lingers, my mind unwilling to contemplate what this meant and turning outward, back to the world of reason and logic. Back to the cryotube hive.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Everyone else is out cold, hairless, silent, motionless, with only the cryopod''s external computer to indicate life. Once again I am singled out, without Richard to keep me company. Had he been flashtrained as well? Those around me seem to be settling into flashtrained skins, becoming their false identity. Sable Yurten sleeps alongside them, my alter-identity meditating on how to win a war, how to kill, for she has performed the act many times.


    Her presence dreams within my mind, picturing a life spent beneath the dirt, cowering from artillery in bunkers filled with ammunition. Like your fifth marine, the one you forgot existed after loading them in a bunker. Useful, yet unused. Perpetually dreaming of hitting those stimpacks yet never granted permission. Dreaming and waking simultaneously blurs into feverish thoughts, minds combatting each other. My eyes focus, seeking distraction or some agreeable image to us both, a compromise we can agree on. Our gaze falling on the FNX-9 in our hand.


    Sable is fascinated by the gun, so crude, yet ambidextrous, smooth, easily operated, and well manufactured. Iron sights with luminescent tritium, glow in the reduced lighting, night sights made from ingenious manipulation of nuclear waste. Our thoughts align, meshing perfectly for several seconds. To bring sweet relief to our warring minds.


    Pistol rises, aiming across the narrow catwalk at a nude man. Flabby, young, and absolutely one of Bazzhole''s college friends. An annoying twat I call Samson.


    My head splits at the name. Sable Yurten''s training corrects me, forcing the name ''Samson'' on the face of a man I know as Dante. I know she''s wrong, know his name is missing, overwritten by the burst of memories. But can only think SAMSON. I look away, keeping my vision aimed at the floor. Unable to fight a battle with sleeping Sable, for it is a battle I might lose.


    My heart slows, often stopping for seconds at a time. I never sleep. One eye is always cracked, watching armed instructors enter the room, waking my former Earthlings. Blurry outlines don clothing and gear, then seal gasmasks over faces, with only a faint red glow leaking out of their eyeholes.


    Through the glass I see a familiar woman. Attractive despite her shaved head. A look only she can pull off due to her skull''s pleasant smoothness that scatters light. Exactly how she looked when we attended earth science 102 a semester ago, and sat opposite each other. Maybe it was some effect of her African heritage, or maybe her parents had not dropped her as a kid, but the shaved head was startlingly feminine. So when Doctor Abrahms went on his rants about railguns being a thousand years out, we rolled our eyes together.


    I wonder where old Dr. Abrahms is now. Maybe still in the lecture hall standing at the center of the semicircular room.


    Alone. Robbed of any purpose by his student¡¯s abduction. Regret fills my mind, annoyed that I never learned this woman¡¯s name. Then I curse her. She¡¯s resisting the clothes, covering herself and crying. Curse her stupidity.


    Play along idiot! Please, don¡¯t make a scene! The medics are not your friends¨C


    ¨CIt''s too late. One of the proctors has stepped behind her. C3 pistol exits holster. An energy weapon that creates a tiny ball of accelerated particles no larger than your pinky nail. Precise, there won¡¯t be any overpenetration. Sable¡¯s seen it before. Highly effective against soft targets but bordering on useless against vehicles or shielded opposition. My classmate¡¯s skull is a soft target, putting on a gory display as the medic provides ¡®recursive retraining.¡¯


    She¡¯s learned the last lesson of her life, and has no need of further instruction.


    Not wanting to emulate her, I go limp. Sable¡¯s false memories guiding my eye as recruits don the standards of their station. The ritual is strange really, there are hundreds of us within this corridor, yet only twelve are ever awoken at the same time. Without guns or even a bayonet to split twelve ways we are vulnerable, the proctors have the upper hand, no amount of wig outs could overpower them. Yet they limit themselves to twelve people on the walkway and twelve tubes decanting. The cycle repeats ad infinitum long after I recognize their cycle. Each of the twelve is a flash trained human that follows a pattern, the first is male and likes to wear his laces tight, cinching them down so hard his feet turn white. He¡¯s nervous, those laces will have to be loosened soon or loss of circulation could become nerve damage. A mistake I see repeated in each squad, always by number one.


    Meanwhile the seventh soldier is always a woman, slender, and taller than average, she has to receive specific gear, or else the rebreather hose won¡¯t reach from her face to the air scrubber. Shaped so similarly to cali-girl Savannah. Each woman makes my heart beat faster, always wondering if this number seven is the genuine Savannah, a piece of my home, someone familiar to-


    -To what? I think, pondering what an ally could do.


    Fight? Of course not.


    Remind me of Earth? Sure, but the day I forget our homeworld is the day I die.


    Hundreds of men, women, and children are released, clothed, and march forth, a procession I observe with growing annoyance as I see professors, schoolmates, girls from my dorm, the gas station clerks, even the Mcdonald''s drive through attendant, I see them all.


    Then comes the sight of something that breaks my last reserve of patience. Baz steps from a cryotube, receiving salutes from the proctors as if my EX is their new commander. Two of the soldiers run from the room, returning later with six women in white lab coats. Doctors maybe.


    Well, at least there is some justice in the world. Doctors will mean recursive retraining for Bazzhole. I think, only for my mouth to fall open. The women salute, then help him dress, fawning over him like a harem of Whorelys. A C3 pistol is provided, as is a sabre -an actual bladed sword-, then flak armor and shoulder epaulets, all the marks of an officer. A fully commissioned and highly ranked officer.


    They made Baz a general.


    God damnit Jim.


    No longer do I accept this as a hallucination. No longer do I believe someone will rescue me. No, I''m fuming with so much rage that I never notice Whorely''s appearance, nor how she dons a similar white lab coat and is ushered out alongside Baz; leaving me to simmer in silence.


    Do not move, do not scream, do not shoot his stupid face. I mentally repeat, watching Baz through half lidded eyes.


    Baz is here, installed as my commanding officer. The one sable Yurten trusts with her life.


    One of the few people my flashtraining prohibits us from killing. So I seethe. Hate boiling in a stew of impotence as others are woken. Finally shattering my reservations. I''m gonna shoot that motherfucking Bazzhole.


    Energy withdraws, fleeing beyond my reach. I cock my head, uncertain. Memories of the orb rise through decades of training. The orb now within me, the tool of creation that could only be abused into destruction. The shared memory builds a neural catwalk reconnecting me to the orb''s power. That''s right, it exists to build.


    My first power comes online, ''Augur''. A name I''ve never heard. One mental click and my index finger begins to light up like I''m a wrinkly lil alien on a bicycle. Out of reflex I tap the FNX light discharging into it as lightning, golden energy that flows through the pistol''s materials, improving, augmenting, cleaning, and purging. Abrasive internals are polished and cleaned, mold lines from plastic injection molding vanish, while checkering sharpens to improve my grip. The dent in the triggerguard from the time I took Baz shooting and he dropped the -loaded- pistol, vanishes. Sights sharpen, melding with the slide and tritium luminescing like three golden stars.


    How I am aware of this is unknown, yet more information is available, each round has been polished and scrubbed, industrial byproducts removed, gunpowder refined, and bullets individually checked for atomic level variations. Somehow gaining a 50% increase in velocity.


    ''Okay, so Augur in more like enhance or upgrade.'' I think, deciding not to press my luck again.


    The proctors are closer now. Looking at me with curious masks. My hair and pistol in particular. However, they are good dogs of the Singularity, never gawking for more than a second.


    Other Earthlings awaken, some are retrained, their blood dripping through metal grating, thousands more march from this chamber, advancing into the unknown. More patterns for my brain to analyze. Especially the eleventh candidate.


    Busty, not too tall, nor short, painfully average really in both height and weight. A fascinating error in the otherwise thorough simulations. We¡¯re Americans, which is to say, fat as fuc. Not half starved levies who completed a hundred mile march in full kit before shipping off to this planet. Sable¡¯s memories explain it, but it¡¯s all I can do to not break into laughter at the cheap excuse. I endure the mirth silently, chuckling until my ribs are sore. Our flash training explained the weight gain as ¡®cryo sickness¡¯. Since we¡¯re asleep but in a vat of nutrients our bodies supposedly absorb everything, putting on extra weight in a necessary inconvenience that will prepare us for half rations in the future.


    The excuse is so half baked I let out a real snort, triggering a blinking alarm on my cryopod.


    Aw crap¡­ I¡¯ve done it now. Play along,. Don¡¯t get shot. I think, fingers reflexively tightening on my FNX. Shit, how did I keep that and no clothes? Jim, you letcher!


    I swear vengeance against him, then add all those who have wronged me to that list. It''s time for a scorched world approach, kill those who have done evil, annihilate those who facilitated our draft. Never again shall the wicked go unpunished. No cost will go unpaid-


    -Visions of the future rise. One way or another Jim will meet a bad end. Four unique deaths, each one stemming from my decisions. I have no need to swear vengeance against the dead, so I let the malice fade. Much to the orb''s relief. Together we exhale, Athena Finley, Mr. Orb, and Sable Yurten, our unity exhaling sharply enough to shake the tube.


    My agitation disturbs the cryogel, setting off alarms. One of the proctors sees my light blink. Face unreadable under their gas mask. An emotionless stare of twin rubies that sweeps the rows of people ahead of us. Her head jerks, facing another proctor. Beneath gasmasks and flashtraining we are still human. Facing someone when we talk is such a deeply ingrained habit that not even helmet integrated coms can defy human nature.


    The nearest proctor levels an accusing finger, imputing treason, requesting my execution. Words pass between the proctors, eventually resolving into a mutual shrug. Something to the effect of ''they''ll get what''s coming''.


    I sweat, watching for thirty minutes as pods are activated all around me, the proctors moving ever closer. Two recursive retrainings hit number eleven. My clonal identity.


    Using clone identities is an interesting subterfuge, for it explains how we share memories from flashtraining without confessing the sin of being abducted. Jim was right, cullings result in a smooth transition.


    A proctor walks by my squad their gloved hand tapping each cryotube to begin the activation sequence. Until my pod. Time seems to stop, heart thundering in my chest, as the proctor steps past me, activating the next pod before circling back to mine.


    Red tinted gas mask looks up at me, pistol in hand. A second -armed- proctor joins the first, two wardens to decant one soldier.


    Besides the helmets they have no armor, I can easily shoot them both-


    -No, the gel will slow the bullet just like before. I''ll have to pretend to be a recruit until the pistol drains. Which really boils down to me decieving them until I can clean the weapon. I bite back a swallow, uncertain if that will give me away.


    My grip tightens on the FNX. These bootlickers will die before I do. No matter what, I am going to survive. Everything is second to that goal, from going home, to finding my step siblings. Survival comes first.


    ''Step siblings?'' I wonder, confused where that came from.


    My energy bar reaches 100 / 100, and the orb speaks.


    ''Third ability, Oracles Gaze. Used by your other thirds to see you. Do not harm these proctors.'' It says, any further conversation cut off as my pod hisses open-


    -and my body moves without permission. Sable Yurten wakes, I extend a hand out of the goo, and the proctors take hold of me, pulling my naked butt out. A surprisingly clean affair. Except for the hair which sticks a if a three inch strip of scotch tape holds tach strand in place, anchoring me to the pod. In the low gravity the goo remains within the pod, somehow adhering tighter to the steel tube than my otherwise hairless figure, which slurps out of the cryogel entirely clean. A quick examination shows all body hair removed save my lashes and eyebrows.


    Proctors exchange looks, three more joining. Daggers are drawn, pistols sheathed. Sable swallows, uncertain how a malfunction like this can be cleared.


    "Hair won''t fit in the helmet. Cut me free." She orders.


    Combat knives saw through hair, their monofilament carbon edges slashing my hair into uneven layers in what has to be a crime against fashion! I''d take Kerrigan''s funky dreads over this.


    Sable pops free, completely at home despite the nudity and pistol.


    "Thanks." She says, flicking the pistol safety on and accepting the offered helmet.


    Red eyes leer, examining my every move. Yet Sable is the perfect little soldier girl. My body dons the wargear, helmet with it''s integrated systems and gasmask, then a thin layer of almost spandex, tighter, more form fitting and entirely meant for hazardous conditions. A sort of anti-radiation spanxs-suit. Then comes bra -no way am I going to war without support!-, shirt, pants, body armor for the chest, outer trousers, overjacket, gloves, boots, and the whole mess is then sealed. Like a fremen stillsuit, meant to keep out radiation instead of keeping us in water. We¡¯ll sweat worse than boiling pigs in these, but we won¡¯t die of cancer.


    A tradeoff that might be meaningless. Between flashtraining and Jim¡¯s download I''m well warned of Syrak-9, an irradiated hellscape for half of the planet''s continents, where only mobile mining cities can exist. Scrapping by on merit of being the only ones stupid enough to risk their lives for the wealth of solarium mining.


    While the other half of the planet is a forest world, bioengineered plants scrub the toxic atmosphere, and cities that would be more at home in the forests of LothLorien than in space rise thousands of meters into the air. Genuine space elevators, so tall that warships can doc directly to them, allowing a person to walk from dirt into space with their own two feet. Bioengineering at its pinnacle. It helps to have a planetary shield as well. Orbital bombardments can¡¯t hit the forest cities. They say knowledge is power, but none of that knowledge helps me now.


    I watch as my body moves, in control of nothing. We march forward, clothed and armed with the FNX.


    I will us left, trying to pursue Baz, only to continue straight, marching with my squad of twelve troopers. Steel walls rise a hundred feet into the air and far deeper below, railed gantries and catwalks run from hundreds of rooms, squads of twelve exiting them at regular intervals -identical to ours- all aimed at a single glowing portal. Some kind of instant teleportation gate, looming like an ancient sentinel, more than fifty feet in diameter and covered in bulbous protrusions, as if steel spheres grew from the swirling energies. It glowed with an otherworldly radiance beckoning us into the unknown.


    Another protochronian device, one these humans should not posses. An independent warp gate. Possibly one of the prototypes from before the -nameless- shared the tech via their twelve Arkships.


    To my Earthling brain it looks like one of those old stargates, the ones from the series where a twenty year old was played by a gray haired badass. Captain Kirk he was not, but the series was a household favorite, due to weekly outings when dad would grill ribeyes while me and mom shared the latest gossip over homemade popcorn.


    Melted butter tickles my nose, lingering in the filtered air of my mask, the half-empty bowl resting between us, casualties of our snacking scattered across a napkin. Every so often, one of us would toss out a theory about what would happen next¡ªsometimes right, sometimes hilariously wrong. But it didn¡¯t matter. What mattered were those moments: the warmth of being together, the shared excitement, the way the show was more than just a sci-fi adventure. It was ours.


    My home.


    Sable Yurten tightens her gloves. Half of Earth is fighting a war after being mind wiped. Maybe Stargate was the psi op it always teased, preparing us for the day our world was culled. Come to think of it, the Goa''uld even used the same terminology.


    I keep pace with the squad our combat boots striking the metallic floor in unison. Soon passing by a floating disk covered in officers. The embodiment of controlled chaos, half watching us, half focused on screens or communication arrays. Several aids move to and fro, giving reports and keeping the logistical war machine running. I¡¯m impressed.


    Across Syrak-9 the war raged in terrible splendor. Towering heavy tanks with plasma-scorched armor rumbled across the blasted plains, once verdant forests burnt to bare dirt, cannons belching fire into the writhing mass of saurian warriors. The creatures, reptilian nightmares with gleaming plasma rifles, howled as they surged forward, their clawed feet churning up dirt as they returned fire in dazzling neon sparks.


    Above, the sky was a graveyard of falling stars. Dropships roared in from high orbit, only to be intercepted by sizzling beams from hidden anti-air batteries. One came screaming down, hull aflame, engines coughing black smoke as it spiraled toward the battlefield. It hit the ground in a detonation that sent a shockwave through her ribs, instantly crushing her hull.


    The burning wreck vanished, replaced with a siren wailing from the command post enemy Juggernauts have breached the eastern trench.


    Sable''s mouth begins to water, this crazy bitch salivating at the thought of combat.


    Ohhhhhh boy... I''m in danger. Please get assigned to bunker duty, or digging trenches! I''m only a squishy lil human girl without Terran power armor or Protoss shielding!


    Four billion recruits have been drafted, mind wiped, flash trained, and moved across galactic arms in a matter of hours, making me question the volume of war. Is four billion a daily death toll? Or have we been recruited with intent? As part of a conquering push to take the entire star system? Syrak-9 is a special world. Worthy of a dedicated armada, if the -nameless- ever allowed such a thing.


    Speakers blare, repeating a simple briefing.


    ¡°-will seek out and destroy all alien lifeforms. Syrak-9 is a solarium mining world, do not use or allow any form of irradiation. Per treaty, no orbital support is permitted, nor may you leave the continent. Violators are subject to immediate execution. Good Luck. You will seek out and destroy all alien-¡±


    Squads run into the portal in waves, half armed, half armored, and a few -like mine- without either. A staff officer, some kind of lieutenant armored in pocket protectors and carrying a spare clipboard instead of a pistol, points to us. To number one, to Specialist Rogers, a trainee on the verge of Corporalhood and defacto squad leader.


    ¡°Your weapons will be on the other side.¡± Officer clipboard calls, nasally voice echoing through the gasmask.


    Of course it would be Baz who gave the order. With a bald Ashley standing behind him.

 Chapter 5 How to Win

    <div>


    My squad trusts him, I trust him. Lieutenant pencil pusher has no reason to lie. If Bazzhole had any idea who I was beneath the gasmask he doesn''t know that I know about Whorely, but the mentally stable do not pursue their siblings. That debauchery is left to the intrinsically depraved. Besides, fate has dark plans for Bazzhole, a torment my inner orb does not wish to gaze into.


    Through the gate we go- bodies unraveling into energy then reassembling into flesh and bone before we register the shift. Harsh winds rip around our greatcoats, imperceptible to our focused intent. Hearts pounding as the battlefield materializes around us, that oh-so familiar texture of war, the eerie quiet that can only come from smelling the rotting corpse of another human being.


    Of the dead.


    Scores of them, strewn across the mud, torn to ribbons. Conscripts reduced to shreds as if funneled through a gargantuan wood chipper. Air whistles through my mask, unable to filter the iron stink of blood and ozone from still-smoldering craters.


    This is not an armory.


    Nor any kind of staging ground.


    Memories rise, replaying how thousands of Sable''s fellow recruits were filtered out. Friendly fire. When artillery shells encountered a strong headwind and fell short, fell onto our positions. A survival lottery that no skill or action on your part could influence. It simply came down to getting lucky.


    Today, we got especially unlucky.


    "Missed our LZ, alright sound off for roll call." Rogers calls, his deep voice mooring our pulses.


    I know in that moment I would follow him to war, just to hear that man say, ''Follow me and you will live."


    Shadows scatter around us, more than I can count. Most fleeing from Roger''s voice. One sprints towards us tackling clone archetype seven. Sarah Green-


    -They fall in a tangle of gills, claws, and bulging eyes. As if this creature is a deep sea nightmare dredged up from dark waters. Now exposed to insufficient pressure. Bulbous flesh trembling on the brink of bursting. We have no armor save our helmets, a calculated risk protecting our brains, while leaving our necks exposed.


    The mutant, whatever it is, clamps down on Sarah''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 need only pull the improved trigger.


    Four squadmates tackle the creature ahead of me, yanking the creature off its feet. A knife flashes, jerked aside by Rogers'' iron grip. My peers from college are no more, replaced by hardened warriors. Familiar with violence. Mutated hands and feet are bent backwards leveraging digits til bones crunch. Hissing, screaming, and flailing as four humans methodically shatter the alien. A fifth squadmate grabs the knife, taking it up in two hands before plunging it into the creature''s eye.


    Bile, green and blue splatters. The mutant screams. The knife flashes. Thrusted again and again. Spasms run through the piranha-like humanoid. Jaw clenches shut, severing Sarah Green''s spine.


    Drawing the pistol took a half second, but that¡¯s all the time it takes to end the fight. Nine people sit clustered around the two bodies, knee deep in unthinkable violence. The perfect target for any smart artillery. Number one-Rogers speaks first, unphased by violence as an untrained earthling ought to be.


    Were Sable not piloting my body, I''d be vomiting on the floor, unable to grasp the wreckage of dead around me. But she is, giving me a spine.


    ¡°We¡¯re clustered, spread¨C¡±


    Artillery vaporizes number one. Direct hit. A high explosive shell physically crushes the man, plowing six feet into muddy trench before the proximity fuse understands it hit something. Fire annihilates the squad. Luckily sparing me, who it only tears in half.


    I''ll never again sit between mom and dad, watching SG-1 with popcorn butter on my fingers.


    Just when I found the will to fight, I die. Damnit. If only I had a second chance, just a few moments to learn these powers...


    The pressure wave knocks me unconscious, killing Sable Yurten.


    ¡ª


    Two voices speak inside my mind, products of our protochronian triplication.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: OW! WHAT THE HELL! WARN ME


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


    >Executrix Alaea: I felt it too. Like getting cut in half. Our third is in trouble.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: was in trouble.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: feels like we are gonna die


    >Matriarch Hygieia: what happens if they die?


    >Executrix Alaea: There is time. have location.


    A moment passed between messages. Information crossing lightyears of subspace to Exec Kaalra''s Destroyer. A humble ship, more yacht than warship sincerely befitting an ambassador.


    >Executrix Alaea: Extensive damage. Need biomass to plug these holes.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: shit


    >Matriarch Hygieia: die now or tomorrow


    >Executrix Alaea: I don¡¯t want to die¡­


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Oh man, this is gonna hurt¡­


    >Matriarch Hygieia: take my hip-arms


    >Matriarch Hygieia: wont need them til the combat drop


    >Matriarch Hygieia: can regrow them


    >Executrix Alaea: You''ll have to provide them... Uh... rip them off yourself. Sorry!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: frick


    ¡ª


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


    Her veneer of lies stripped away by un-friendly fire¨C


    ¨CAnd the bitch left me holding the bag.


    I became aware slowly, light coming back into my pupils. Legs tingling as feeling returns, coming in a distinct wave that starts near my ribs and ripples down, through my pelvis, over my hips, into knees, calves, feet, and finally my toes. They¡¯re weirdly cold, looking down I find yellow arcs of light crawling over my ¨Conce again¨C naked lower half. Weird, when did I paint my toenails black?


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Did Whorely paint my nails when I was sleeping?


    I shake the distraction, more annoyed at an emergent pattern, one I am already fed up with! What philandering jerk leaves a woman naked in the trenches?


    The golden sparks tickle my legs, creeping entirely too close to my lady bits.


    ¡°Eek!¡± 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 Green. Sparks leap from me to her, encircling her upper half and arcing to her legs, she was dismembered 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]


    0 / 1 Biomass


    ¡°What the hel¨C¡±


    Before I can finish the thought, text appears in my mind, so similar to the chat function of a game, specifically shaped like the Starcraft party chat. It''s been years since I¡¯ve seen it''s blocky purple font, mainly because I have the chat function muted these days. Nothing is left except friends who haven¡¯t logged on in three years and edgy politics. The polar opposite of the two women I now see chatting inside my mind, cordial and friendly.


    Two people have been having a conversation for what looks like hours. As if they existed while I was being flashtrained.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: tasty


    >Matriarch Hygieia: like radioactive pork thats oversalted and undercooked


    >Matriarch Hygieia: wait¡­


    >Matriarch Hygieia: this doesnt taste right, its not like the biopools


    >Matriarch Hygieia: its not my biomass


    >Executrix Alaea: Wasn¡¯t me.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Is our other half alive?


    >Executrix Alaea: Can you have three halves? Hey! Athena Finley, say hello! You know which buttons to press.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: tastes like a double helix...


    >Matriarch Hygieia: asshole


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you sent me human biomass?


    >Executrix Alaea: Ick. But¡­ Does it matter if you aren¡¯t human yourself?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: guess not


    >Matriarch Hygieia: its the thought that counts


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


    My voice trails off as I stare at my toes, whatever substance is darkening my nails, it certainly isn''t polish. A permanently gothic fashion statement that will forever ruin my favorite heels. But shopping can wait, I have larger concerns, my legs are no longer the same, already showing defined muscles, although that might just be the perfect cryo-shave. I run my fingers over them, glass has more friction than these sexy bitches.


    I¡¯m dazed. Not thinking clearly. Brain whirling as I try to grasp my death and resurrections.


    My mouth works thought into the world.


    ¡°In the past day I was cheated on, conscripted into a galactic military, flashtrained to be a fake clone, then actually cloned, 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.


    A shiver runs up my spine. Wind chilling my bare skin. One quick glance around and I scramble into the clothes Green left behind. Since her body no longer needs them, I''m sure she won''t mind.


    Hey, I don¡¯t like graverobbing at all, but some of her pragmatism seems to have seeped into my psyche. I ain''t running around a planet without pants! Besides, twelve¡¯s body is gone, no blood or viscera remains, leaving guilt-free pants behind. Boots too. Life saving protection when you consider the ambient radiation will give me cancer inside of an hour. Best armor up. Somehow my FNX pistol survived along with the magazines. A small miracle.


    I am no longer Sable Yurten, but we are the rarest form of step-sisters, where both of us are better for having known the other. A mutual upgrade. That thought reminds me of the ''Augur'' power which I activate again, this time aiming at my pistol. Steel stretches, lowering slightly as the pistol''s atoms rearrange themselves into an aerodynamic custom, barrel and slide lengthening to further stabilize the bullets. Which improve a second time, steel atoms combining to form a central penetrator and two kerf lines along the copper jacket. Against armor the penetrator will detach giving it the greatest possible chance of breaching while the copper and lead will peel away in soft tissue, fragmenting into multiple rounds to increase internal bleeding.


    A smile spreads across my face. This is the best game ever, one where I can jackhammer the upgrade button ten times every one hundred seconds.


    I will make it home.


    Still... This war feels lost, hopeless even. Fifteen seconds is how quickly my squad died, 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! Why not use them?


    Wind howls, around falling shells. More artillery. An itch spreads across my waist, the old war wound. 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 military highway, a thirty-foot-deep chasm reinforced with logs and metal grating. Heavy beams line the mud walls, steel grating covering the otherwise dirty muck. A sort of reinforcement that limits how deep even the heaviest of fatasses or tanks can sink--a Technomancy tactic ensuring their war machines can keep on warring without getting mired-- yet it does nothing to keeping mud from coating my boots.


    Walls give me a false sense of security, dirt trenching alone isn¡¯t enough to protect from bombardment. The Singularity training manual -courtesy of Sable- suggests bunkers be dug every quarter mile at a minimum. While our rival''s -the Novan Technomancy of Steel- standard is looser at a mile or two. Summarizing our differences, we want humans to live, they care about efficiency. A fact that has won them many interplanetary battles.


    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, saving my soft squishy grey matter from trauma -Quality gear, built to function after a direct hit-- which I¡¯ve taken two of.


    Pressure 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 is coming to save me, no one is my true ally, there are no weapons here, only the odd chat window. I drag myself onto my feet, wobbling down the trench in what feels like a sprint; hoping to find a bunker where I can get my bearings and link up with Singularity forces. Freedom cannot be enjoyed if I''m dead.


    Deep within my mind Sable Yurten encounters my memories of StarCraft 2, drooling over power armored infantry, siege tanks, and instantly acquiring a crippling fascination with shields. Ideas and technology available for production from a fully supplied nanofactory. We have a pathway to victory, to impose my will onto this battlefield and compel a wargame only I can win. It will only take a little coordination with my other thirds.


    Executrix Alaea is right, I know the buttons required to speak. The window isn¡¯t really a window, it''s a borderless square in the bottom right hand corner of my vision.


    >Executrix Alaea: Ouch! Please don¡¯t die, I need you Athena. Can¡¯t heal you again.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I¡¯ll kill you if you die!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Stay alive!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hide in a hole if you have to!!!!!!


    Mentally I press enter, flicking my left pinky to open chat. An affectation I soon learn is unnecessary.


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: what the hell¡­ HUMAN?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH


    >Executrix Alaea: Ignore her. Shes uh¡­ I don¡¯t know how to say this, not herself? Having a hard time adjusting. Kinda zergy, but don¡¯t worry about that.


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: HA! serves you right.

 Chapter 6 Pain is for Mortals

    Pain rakes my body. Fire running through my being. Shockwaves must have broken my bones. A fact each aftershock reminds me of. No, that makes no sense. Earthquakes have aftershocks not artillery shells¨C


    ¨CWhich means the shaking is more shells. Someone is bombarding the trench en masse, 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, unlike myself, guess that means 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 Athena: I¡¯m alone, in a trench war with mutants and artillery! 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. Regular thudding, one foot in front of the other. Shadows flit and flicker, half starved mutants digging deeper. Abominations gone mad with hunger.


    I hobble faster. Soon escaping the shadow of a fortress.


    Wind howls through the bones of the dead stones, dragging with it the dust of a shattered empire. The stepped pyramid, once a bastion against the galactic fury, now lies in ruins¡ªits once-proud terraces crumbling, its great metal-plated walls pitted and scorched by orbital fire. What remains of its towering bulk leans to both sides, split open and scattered as if Shai Hulud tunneled through it. Black oxides coat the metal, gleaming with traces of ancient shields. Now ripped into chaotic anomalies.


    Whatever destroyed this fortress is long past, yet the weight of silence presses down. This was no mere stronghold¡ªit was a defiant citadel, a racial headquarters, the hope of an entire species. Meant to outlast the ages only to shatter like peanut brittle. Massive impact craters line the trench, yawning gaps exposing the tangled veins of ancient fortifications, of crystals, roots, stones, and a myriad of other layers I cannot recognize.


    The earth trembles, going silent as I limp forward. Pain fading, must be the adrenaline. Far to my right a bunker pops up, energy collects in the short muzzle of a point defense cannon, green and angry. Aimed not at me, nut into the sky above. Three shots echo in quick repetition, only detectable by the thrumming air. I''ve gone deaf, ears blown out by the previous artillery.


    Drained of energy the battery sinks into the mud, concealing itself for future point defense. An automated defense, left behind by some eradicated race. Syrak-9 is truly a game world where all races convene to hold their wargames.


    I need to find cover.


    I step carefully over the broken remains of battle¡ªscorched armor plating, sun-bleached bones, the rusted husks of war machines whose pilots never escaped. The wind stirs again, carrying a whisper of something older than war, older than this fallen edifice. It is the sound of inevitability, the slow, patient erosion of civilizations.


    Fingers flex, involuntarily spending my energy to stack upgrade upon upgrade on my pistol, soon reaching a theoretical limit of perfection. Every piece of steel gleams with a mirror polish, every edge chamfered to perfection, rounds and barrel swaged to impossible tolerances. No longer can it be called a 9mm pistol, for the rounds will fire twice as fast. Steel penetrators have grown denser, becoming hardened tungsten rods, and the two shrapnel-inducing kerfs multiply to eight, guaranteeing carnage on impact.


    Still I continue on, dragging my foot through the pain. One glance at the walls tells a story of wood stacked below layers of steel mesh and additional supports. This trench is old, with a lasagna of fortifications layered atop each other. Sapient species, including Humans have been fighting over this dirt for centuries, attacking, destroying, dying, and rebuilding in a perpetual cycle.


    All for export rights on solarium shipments.


    With a couple of odd layers marking times when secondary antagonists -xenos- swept the field. Judging by the heavy treadmarks pressed into the mud I guess this is currently 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, except for our heavy artillery we only use infantry and all terrain equipment so 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.


    >Executrix Alaea: Already tried to beam you up. Can¡¯t. The equipment I have is a glorified microwave, and Augury reached its limit. So we''ve got weird limitations, that include us three. Might be anything the -nameless- are watching, not sure yet.


    >Human Athena: Xeno-voldemort is gonna get me killed? Really?


    >Human Athena: Fuck off with that bullshit!


    >Executrix Alaea: I swear I would if I could! Might be a security lock out¡­ Athena, we are no longer human. These names weren¡¯t picked by us and my ship does not have a human habitable atmosphere! Even if you could get beamed up, your lungs would catch on fire and melt. Same for Hygieia.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Survive bitch.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hey, send me more biomass and i can make some bioforms


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hive ship is organic so i got wiggle room


    >Matriarch Hygieia: send and receive a bit without being noticed


    >Matriarch Hygieia: takes time. but I¡¯m safe


    >Matriarch Hygieia: safe enough


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


    A bend in the trench slows me, apprehension rising. Improved or not my FNX isn¡¯t going to dent a Techno-tank or knock out Azhurai quantum shielding. While slowing down only makes me vulnerable to getting shot in the back.


    I''m gonna be lucky or dead. Steeled, I walk forward like I''m the limping bombed out Queen of Trenchlandia. Sparing a regal glance back at the pile of comrades, just in time to see dozens of electric pink iguanas jump into the trench. Tulverians, aliens with rifles and blast armor over half their otherwise exposed scales. Filthy xenos.


    With plasma rifles.


    For a second I¡¯m tempted to try my luck, but only a second. One pistol versus a full squad of enemies? Even Clint Eastwood¡¯s .44 magnum would run dry. I jog forward, ankle bringing tears to my eyes as pain sledgehammers my leg. Around the bend I cry, hoping the crocodilianoids are sated by eating other earthlings.


    On second thought, I hope we taste like shit. The last thing I need is buffalo sized iguanas thinking I''m a snakey-snack.


    Around the corner lies empty, save for the very thing I¡¯ve been looking for.


    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 security breach 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, the shaking and thudding my only sense of hearing.


    ¡°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 into a gentle incline 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 praying it''s abandoned. 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 belching clouds of black smoke as they launch swarms of high explosive missiles.


    A volley so comprehensive that chemtrails blot out the sun. Energy batteries whine and fire, detonating dozens of missiles. A futile waste of power cells. Thousands of the suicide fleet strike home, sending a shockwave that even my deaf ears can register.


    Twelve Juggernauts is an armored division, this is the start of a Novan offensive push. A major fight. I cock the hammer on my uber-FNX, knowing it''ll never improve into an anti-tank weapon. I tap into Sanle''s memories for advice- 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 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 green-scaled Tulverians. Mouths stained crimson. Plasms rifles armed, charged, and at the ready. Up close I see the folly of calling them Iguanas, three inch fangs line hard beaked maws, with a duplex of overlapping eyelids and claws evolved for rending prey into giblets. These are closer to Jurassic Park than a petting zoo. One bite would tear me in half.


    The leader sees me, skull crest rising, gun aiming at my chest, mouth opening to¨C


    -He blinks. Pupil 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 green scales 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 ignore it, wondering how much blood I lost today. Adrenaline should be spiking now, but my glands seem empty. Exhaustion hits. I slump against the trench wall, collapsing onto my ass.


    A Juggernaut, three stories of branching gun barrels, sensors, and armor plating rolls into view, turning away from me and rolling up the far ramp. Dozens, possibly hundreds of individual guns are welded or bracketed to the Juggernaut in a massive tree of firepower. As if someone made an American Christmas tree of AR-15s then bolted it to a remote controlled Killdozer. Thousands of rifles and machine guns are cludged onto a central brick of a tank. Long, steel, with armor thicker than a schoolbus and treads to match.


    Rear facing autocannons aim, tracking my forehead, gimbals holding their aim steady as the juggernaut rises above the trench. For some inexplicable reason it doesn¡¯t fire. Maybe because I¡¯m no threat to it. But Sable has seen Juggernauts fire their guns just to feel recoil, some vestigial reflex of its human pilot, firing for the sake of sensation, of feeling anything. Each tank has only one pilot, located at center mass of the boxed section. Five feet above the reactor.


    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 Juggernauts, 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 dies 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 fight. 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 tripwires left near the entrance.


    Nightvision activates automatically, illuminating the bunker¡¯s interior with twin green beams.


    ¡°Nightvision, dial to minimum.¡±

 Chapter 7 Tech Marines before Warhounds

    The eye beams dim to wire thick beams simultaneously becoming nothing and too much light. A Juggernaut has sensor suites, while 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. Fair compensation for my earlier unluck. Walmart is empty. 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 Tassadar.¡± I mutter, oon discovering the cause.


    Hard rock lines the walls, stone protecting the rearmost wall which descends into darkness with a vertical shaft running through it. This is a mine, dug by the mobile cities in an era before these wargames.


    On this side of the chasm, stacks of rockets rise from the dirt floor with red and yellow hazard striping on the nosecones spiraling into the air. High explosive warheads. Too large for a human to move or carry. Sable''s first impulse is to manually detonate the lot of them, even if she dies it will remove these supplies from enemy reserves.


    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 steel briefcase, not really a pistol at all. Instead it''s a miniaturized railgun that fires steel spikes -sewing needles- with aerodynamic 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.


    ¡°Is this real life?¡±


    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, cutting off my laughter.


    The words return me to a place of normality, tickling the flashtraining¡¯s desire to complete my mission.


    That¡¯s right, the mission was to get a weapon and fight back. Cmon girl! Work the problem.


    ¡°Alright. Stay alive. I can kill any Tulverians now. But they can kill me. Find armor. Juggernauts can kill any armor, so find a bigger gun, kill all Juggernauts. Easy. Just like teching up to Thors and siege tanks. OOoooohhh and liberators...¡±


    Once again I turn towards crate mountain. In the dark it looks like a vehicle of some kind. Garaged behind 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. Like an idiot.


    "Cmon, nightvision ruins peripheral vision! You know that!" I snap at the shattered lenses.


    Damaged beyond repair. I need a replacement.


    So with trembling limbs I curl my feet beneath me and pause, giving my ability a test run. I focus on my inner creation, kneeling in the dim glow of a ruined bunker, my clothes tattered with the soot of war. Shattered glass fell into my gloved hands, jagged edges still humming with the aftershock of a direct strike. With a slow, deliberate motion, I gathered the energy, fingers splaying as currents of ethereal power coiled around the fragments, lifting them into the air. Threads of incandescent void-light wove through the cracks like living circuitry, reforging the helm not with mere metal, but with something far beyond it¡ªa lattice of raw potential, a fusion of protochronian knowledge and will. The pieces hesitated for a breathless moment, caught in the tide of power, then snapped together with a final, resonant click.


    [-10 energy]


    "Oh baby. This power is the shit." I exhaled, casting the spell again. Then again, and again, and again!


    Until my subconscious refused to drain the energy, for there was nothing left to improve. No damage to mend, no impurities in the steel to remove. I''d reached theoretical perfection for the helmet making it far lighter and custom fit to my head, with a sort of foam lattice above and below the alloys. To serve as an anti-shrapnel or anti-spalling layer that also helped against high energy discharges like plasma. Lighter, stronger, more comfortable, and fully functional.


    Nightvision dimmed, every lens enhanced to the idea, and each diode optimized so thoroughly the electrons within found their motions eased.


    I breathed easy, feeling over the helmet as the last filaments of yellow energy disappeared into the obsidian sheen of the restored helm, my twin eyes reigniting in green beams, wider and fainter as the helmet sealed over my head once more. The battlefield was still¡ªa moment of unnatural quiet, as if the void itself acknowledged the reconstruction. Static rippled through the air. Somewhere beyond the wreckage, distant engines howled, a reminder that war had not paused for my small miracle.


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    Yet I did not rush, pondering what this power could do, what lives it could save, and if it could be used to build from raw materials and I could do. I needed allies, those who could be enhanced.


    My free hands fell to the pile I was sitting on, soon discovering what it was through my newly enhanced nightvision.


    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.


    Cognitively 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 Athena: I have biomass. Let me know when you¡¯re ready.


    I stare at the words I''ve mentally typed surprised at how easy it was. Then inhale before sending. Survival comes first. Then we can return to Earth and get laid start a family. Simple as. Well, and maybe punch Bazzhole in the cock-er spaniel. That asshole sent me to the frontlines without a gun or armor! I want to forget him, to erase him from my library of friends, but that sort of traitorous contempt for me is incomprehensible.


    The safest path forward would be his death. Whorely''s too. Ick. Maybe I should be grateful to them, if not for their cheating I¡¯d be pining for them both, wishing with all my heart they were with me now. Lying distractions likely to get me killed.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: send 100 kilos cant hide more in-


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cant hide more


    I touch the bodies, mentally tagging them for Alaea¡¯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 a faint outline overlays my vision. Out of stubbornness I try to mark myself, and nothing whatsoever occurs.


    "Had to try." I whisper, testing my newfound Augury while Alaea works.


    The first body vanishes, then after a delay the second goes. Our casts mirroring each other in a duet of harvesting and repair. Bodies vanish, while my spell repairs clothing or boots, ordinary cloth thickens layer by layer, transforming into Kevlar, Garments mold to my form, reshaped and reinforced. It¡¯s as if I carry an army of designers and clothiers stuffed into my pockets!


    An army... I need to find soldiers and armor to improve. That is how I can survive.


    This world is a ruined husk covered in the detritus of a million invasions, plenty of raw materials for me to work with. So similar to the ''Cutthroat'' mission in Wings of Liberty, which was secretly the most macroable map as it had infinite resources despite the quickly depleting mineral fields.


    "Time to embrace my inner trashman!" I giggle, digging through the pile of corpses.


    This squad was at least given weapons. One glance tells a sordid history with the sharpened shovel -coated in red oxides- something I hope is rust. Another belt contains 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. Once in training the instructors brought us cloned technocracy soldiers and made us stab them to death as a team building exercise.


    The single worst day for wig outs.


    ¡°Hmmm... Sable''s kinda a psychopath. Not that I can blame her..." I say, speaking and finally realizing I''m deaf. "Did the flashtraining do that or just bring it out? Whatever, I need a real gun. Something along the lines of a dragoon¡¯s phase disruptor cannon or a Technocracy pulsed ion accelerator.¡± I say aloud, searching through crates.


    Most are locked with electronic keypads. Tiny powerports adjacent to dim screens show their intention. Not only must you know the pass-code, you must also power the screen, something that would be easy for technician grade power armor. The shovel weighs in my hand like a skeleton key, but I know better. Keypad locks are merely the warning stickers for those who know. If I try to force the crates open then an explosive charge will detonate, ruining whatever is within the crate and my face for good measure.


    ¡°Man, flashtraining is super useful. I¡¯d be dead without it. If I ever get back to earth¡­ NO, WHEN I get back to Earth I need to steal that tech. We¡¯d be able to catch up earth scientists overnight!¡± I say, rummaging through unlocked crates.


    Missiles and gauss rounds are what I find, munitions for the rolling buildings they call Juggernauts. No way can I use these, even with power armor I can¡¯t carry or launch such high caliber projectiles effectively.


    Outside the artillery barrage redoubles.


    Shells following the Juggernaut Division''s path. One artillery hit won¡¯t knock out a Juggernaut and since artillery comes from the top a mobility kill is unlikely as the treads are tucked beneach armor. But arty 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 and anti tank warheads. A few dozen of those nasty bitches is enough to knock out anything unshielded.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: crap i need an immediate teleport!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Eugenic Hitler is counting babies!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: make one special zergling and the census bureau shows up


    I stare at the text, giggling at whatever a ¡®eugenic hitler¡¯ 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 greatest weakness, lemon juice.


    >Executrix Alaea: Zergling? NO. Not on my ship. Thena? Want puppies?


    >Human Athena: A puppyling? THAT¡¯S what you call a WARRIOR? ugh. Whatever. Send it. It¡¯ll listen to me right?


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


    >Executrix Alaea: say something if they misbehave.


    I note how Alaea switched from the singular to the plural. What exactly has she been cooking?


    >Human Athena: Yes maam!


    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. Skeleton first, then organs and the spines running 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 with the motion, unsheathing bone spikes atop some kind of pressurized fluid sac. As if they can launch those dorsal spines. In short, these quadrupeds are anything but zerglings.


    My eyes flick from the ET finger to the zerglings, excitement rising in all three Thenas.


    >Terran Thena: Are you thinking what I''m thinking?


    >Executrix Alaea: We don''t know how that power works. Would turning them into golden retrievers count as an upgrade?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: don''t be a bitch


    >Matriarch Hygieia: DO IT

 Chapter 8 I am Athena Hygieia

    ¨CTwenty hours before nuclear detonation-


    My last human memory was cowering behind Richard¡¯s broad shoulders, shielding myself as we accepted the orb and our life ceased to be.


    I wasn¡¯t in a cryotube anymore. That was something, at least. A small comfort, knowing my past troubles had been erased along with my body¡ªno more academic probation, no more last-ditch appeals. I supposed that counted as a win.


    Then the thought struck me, sharp as a kaiser blade.


    The college.


    What happened to everyone? The students, the professors- half the staff, all gone. Ages twelve to forty-five, vanished. Going back to Earth alone wouldn¡¯t be enough. I needed transports and starships to ferry the survivors. If there were any willing to abandon this world.


    Hours, years, or seconds passed, with my consciousness existing in total oblivion. I would say floating but there were no sensations, no impulses, no desires whatsoever. Apathetic in totality. Who cared if Baz cheated on me? I caught the leeches red handed. No longer could they siphon away my life, time, or love. They were gone and I was free. Now if only I could find a cutie on Syrak-9¡­


    ¡°Maybe I should settle for a cat.¡±


    I wanted to smile at the intrusive thought. Only for the stars to pulse within me.


    A heartbeat.


    A whisper in the dark.


    Not a voice, but something deeper, more primal. It curled around me like a predator, ancient and patient. A foreign hunger gnawed at the edges of my mind, something vast, something complete.


    My thoughts tangled, slipping away into something other. My body- no, my form- shifted. I was no longer the fragile flesh I once was. Something chitinous clicked, mandibles twitched. My mind stretched, sensing¡­ millions.


    Brood.


    A shuddering breath¡ªor the closest thing to it¡ªrippled through me. My will spread like roots into a network far beyond my comprehension.


    Deep within the wrinkles of my brain new connections began to form leaving me with a question I could not contemplate. Who was I? My memories were Athena¡¯s, 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 long absences, harder still to miss Baz''s bouts of apathy. Always spending a bit too much time alone with Ashley. Always arriving at my apartment an hour before I got home.


    I sigh, abandoning Athena''s vendetta against them. Human mating rituals- any mating rituals, are no longer my concern. Should death find the siblings it would bring one small smirk to my face, no joy, no relief.


    Besides, I would never see those four people again. That was certain. But -Savannah- I had questions for her. She must have known.


    Not that it mattered now. For I was erased, set to dissolve in in this numb, sensationless limbo.


    It would have been nice, though. To meet my youngest sibling. To fall in love and build a family. To grow old in a world where my choices were my own. But those dreams had withered, and I -just like them- would soon be nothing more than a fading memory.


    Then, everything shifted.


    Darkness. Not the absence of light, but the kind of darkness you see with closed eyes, rippling, writhing, pulsing with unseen movement. A living blackness.


    And then sensation.


    Warm, humid air brushing against me. A strange dampness clinging to my skin¡ªno, not skin. Something hardened, something chitinous. Sound came next, layered, overwhelming. The rustling of unseen creatures, the scrape of claws, the dull stomp of hooves on wet ground. Grunts, squawks, and guttural murmurs pressed into my mind, a chaotic orchestra of the unknown rattles around my head until I hear Jim''s painfully familiar voice.


    Jim, that damn publican.


    "There ya go, all brainwaves rising. She¡¯s coming too. Might be awake already so be conscious of that. Oh, give her time to adjust from a human being to-¡± A hesitation. I could hear the gesture, the vague motion toward whatever I had become. ¡°Well, whatever you put her in. Don¡¯t drop the whole Collective on her head at once. That being said¡­¡±


    Something in his tone sharpened.


    ¡°I have high hopes for this particular mind. Very high hopes.¡± A satisfied exhale, the sound of a mission completed. ¡°Let me know how she pans out for ya. Congrats on your own personal Matriarch. It¡¯s been a pleasure doing business with the Collective.¡±


    A raspy voice answers, somehow moist and 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.


    ¡°Ah, the last piece falls into our puzzle. Jim, today you may have saved the galaxy. Our orders come from the highest authority and require this one.¡± Rasps out the third being.


    ¡°Saved the galaxy? Ha, saved my wallet more like. I appreciate the notion 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 conveyance. Nor the drop pods to convey additional biomass. Thank you Jim.¡± Says the bitey rasper.


    His voice irritates me, so similar to an old acquaintance. 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 that my front assets have moved rearwards. Oh no. Someone¡¯s turned me into a blow up doll, and they¡¯re an ass guy. Why take away my tits!


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    Then the feeling reaches my ribs. My chest isn¡¯t just reduced, it¡¯s totally flat, 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, claws tip tapping across where my glutes should be and finding 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 pluck 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 a refrigerator. Or a person. I know because this body remembers tearing technomancy engineers 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. A matriarch of the Endless Collective, a sort of experimental warlord within an organic army.


    Experimental? Then it hits like a wrecking ball. The mental blocks. The Endless only push forward, we conquer, never looking behind, never seeking our creators. It bores into my consciousness like a thousand fire ants, digging long tears of blood 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 than I can count propel me out of the pool, not quite centipede, but more than six. Each limb bearing six joints. More flexibility than a slinky. Green liquid flows off my lower half, revealing an even greater change. As a Matriarch it is my duty and honor to bear the next generations of warriors and earn the name of Endless. Four wombs are visible on my back, with creatures growing in each of them. Spawned from the biopool and my own genetic material with guidance from the Marquis of Survival, Zazathur.


    I¡¯m pregnant. With quadruplets.


    ¡°How did this even happen?¡± I grumble, the alien mouth mauling speech.


    If I have to carry something to term, getting laid is the smallest possible compensation! This is the worst possible kind of robbery!


    Memories chide me, this body is a Matriarch, I¡¯ve carried thousands of children in my perpetual war, and will bear many more. Four visible uteri are only the tip of an iceberg, for I have twelve. All of which are occupied.


    Worse, I¡¯m capable of selectively editing genetic material then kick starting replication. In short, I can fuck myself in a totally literal sense. My memories have no personality, instead they offer up information that should be relevant. There are no male Matriarchs. No need.


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


    The closest thing imaginable to this is a Drider or Centaur from Dungeons & Dragons, a game Bazzhole and Whorley convinced me to play. It really wasn¡¯t my thing, I had decided to play a shy rogue, the quiet type, while Ashley went with a moonlighting Bard so she could romance the NPCs. A game she soon aimed at Baz. How could I have missed that? Just how long were they going behind my back?


    Sorrow translates into fear, and three prehensile stingers push out of sheathes on my rear abdomen, where a spider might keep their spinnerets, albeit those do not glisten with lethal venoms. Dorsal crest contracts, pushing more spines out of skin sheathes, each an envenomed blade I can forcefully eject towards enemies. Kinda like intentionally sharting death at mach speeds.


    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 Queen, the HOTS variant not the flying eyeball with buck teeth. Except I have four shoulders connected to my torso. Two are small things, positioned where the human half of a centaur¡¯s would be. Consequently pushing the other two arms down to my waist where the insectoid thorax with wombs meets my torso. There my arms rest, folded. Like a praying mantis with spear tips and serrated edges. I extend one, wincing as my human mind rewrites itself to this body. It¡¯s as if my pinky finger is suddenly a complete arm and 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 backwards sending me splashing into the biopool. Worker drones, creatures similar to ants appear and seal the gash in the ship, ignoring me. Alive for five minutes and already pissed off the mayor, or uh, shipmind.


    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.


    >Executrix Alaea: Felt like someone just tried to strangle me. Is someone there? I¡¯m Athena¡­


    I close my eyes, but the text remains. Weird, but I¡¯m not doing anything other than zerg yoga right now, may as well respond.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I¡¯m Athena¡­ Sorta. Last thing I remember was being pulled out of my body.


    >Executrix Alaea: Matriarch Hygieia? Like, Hygieia Athena? Weird reference. But if you¡¯re not human anymore¡­ Eh, makes as much sense as my new body, or this damn crystal ball.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I¡¯m not even close to human. Like a pregnant zerg queen. More armor, and twelve wombs I have to fuk myself.


    >Executrix Alaea: 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.


    >Executrix Alaea: WTF! I thought you were joking¡­ Girl, I''m so sorry.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Relax, this body doesn¡¯t seem to have a pity circuit. I make warriors. 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. The Endless collective isn¡¯t quite endless, having only assimilated quintillions of different genomes. But somehow they still haven¡¯t created bioforms directly equal to zerglings. A correction I begin to make immediately.


    The only hesitation comes from having to- uhm¡­ produce them myself. No way in hell is my coochie pumping out ten million lings so I develop compromises. Favoring quality over quantity at every turn and making 100% sure the progeny will need time outside of me to develop fully. A compromise few other Matriarchs seem willing to make.


    My first brood is done in an hour, dropped in a green egg which they tear asunder with crystalline claws, fancy, but it was one of twelve mutations for claws and I chose the one that cut the deepest. Okay, maybe I just liked to bling out my zerglings. Can you really blame a girl? Another hour passes and the Shipmind orders my doglings away for examinations.


    I have no wish to be critiqued, but this is standard procedure for the collective. Shipmind is always watching, monitoring ten thousand variables as it hurtles through the galactic darkness, monitoring every drop of biomass and molecule of gas aboard our bioship. With so many variables some shortcuts become commonplace, like tracking bioforms as a whole and not their ingested biomass.


    An oversight I exploit fully. Gradually inflating my exterior and absorbing more materials to continue my manipulations within the teeny tiny amount of wiggle room. Jim warned me not to reveal my nature. So I won¡¯t risk meeting what spacefaring bugs would call a ¡®medic¡¯. They¡¯d probably chop me up and retire me into a pool of acid.


    All other biomass is tied up, devoted to the cause. I swallow uncomfortably, hoping they didn¡¯t take my doglings off to be recycled. We¡¯ll be landing soon. On a world that would love nothing more than to kill every last member of the Collective. Two lings won¡¯t be enough to protect me. I¡¯ll need more creatures and set to making them.


    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.

 Chapter 9 Not Zerglings! And Certainly Not Kerrigan

    -12 hours before nuclear detonation-


    Hygieia¡¯s twin zerglings obey my command instantly. That shouldn¡¯t be possible. No way they can hear me through the gas mask¡­ the seals are airtight, the material dense and thrice improve. Yet, they respond, as if my thoughts ripple through the damp, shadowed air like an unspoken whisper. A telepathic link?


    If that¡¯s the case, then I¡¯m a hive mind¡¯s stepchild, somehow grafted onto an intelligence far older and more alien than I can comprehend.


    The stone walls glisten with my thoughts, bioluminescent fungi hangs from the ceiling, pooling in sickly green puddles. A faint chittering echoes from somewhere in the dark, a sound that could be water running through unseen crevices or some remnant of a fallen army shifting just beyond the edges of my vision. The zerglings crouch at my feet, their spined carapaces slick with cave damp. I study them, from enormous fangs to spines that would make a Lurker jealous.


    How did I get adopted into a hive mind? Did the orb do this? I know it split us into three beings but we were human! I wonder, giving the zerglings a suspicious glare. Not like they can see that with my sealed helmet.


    I decide to test it. Without moving a muscle, I think the command- hold out your paw. The nearest zergling obeys, lifting a clawed limb in an eerily dog-like manner. Even more unsettling, it lolls its tongue from between its daggered teeth, mimicking the dopey charm of a golden retriever.


    A laugh hitches in my throat, half amusement, half unease. Up close, their fangs, chitinous plating, and sinewy limbs are anything but comforting, but there¡¯s something¡­ endearing about them. Like some grotesque hairless puppy. They are starting to grow on me, cute even. 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 children¡¯s petting zoo and calling it a friendly turkey.


    I steel myself. ¡°Do not harm me,¡± I command, keeping my voice steady, despite the crawling tension in my chest.


    They don¡¯t react. No hiss, no sudden lunge, no sign that they even consider me prey. Then I swallow, pondering my next command.


    "Uh, good boys." I say, thinking only to be polite.


    In sync, both creatures begin to wag their tails, proof positive of their total allegiance.


    >Human Athena: They¡¯re like dogs.


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


    >Terran Thena: :)


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cheeky bitch


    My nickname should set us apart, and I want to remind the other girls of our final goal, not just that I won our racial coin toss. We are here to build up, not bicker.


    Spread out. Search the bunker. I push the thought outward like a ripple through still water. I¡¯m looking for powered armor, portable weapons, anything useful. The two creatures slink into the suffocating dark, their spined tails flashing like living whips barbed with bulbous stingers eerily reminiscent of a scorpion¡¯s.


    They do not reply. For there is no need. I know they¡¯ve understood. We¡¯re linked, what they can see I am aware of. As if their senses are directly uploaded into my memory to access at my leisure.


    ¡°Hive minds are something else,¡± I murmur, my voice swallowed by the bunker¡¯s oppressive silence.


    Damp air tasting of rust and decay. Though this is only a hidden ammo cache, not truly a fortification worthy of installing air scrubbers, an eminent truth when the open mineshaft would prevent any real security. Who knows what mutants are hiding at the bottom of that vertical shaft.


    One creature peers over the edge, nudging a rock into the darkness. Two seconds pass before we hear the *plunk* of rock disturbing some fluid. I would guess water, but on an irradiated war-game world like this it could be nuclear coolant or pure hydrofluoric acid and I wouldn''t be surprised. Neither would the two creatures. 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. The thought lingers, heavier than it should be, before I shove it aside. Focus.


    I frown, watching the not-zerglings prowl ahead feet barely making a sound against the concrete floor, their bodies flowing like liquid shadow. 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 all three of myselves exactly what we¡¯re talking about.


    Total darkness falls as the sun sets on Syrak-9, yet they move with unwavering certainty, sniffing at crates, missile racks, the dirt-caked corners where time has settled like dust. 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 see or sense. Somehow they¡¯re able to detect miniscule movements through the earth, a sort of tremor sense.


    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 to bits. Mommy needs whatever weapon did that! Leaving a GPS tag on that location ¡®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. Unmistakable in the lonely darkness. Baz, the traitor, speaks in my com channel.


    ¡°Brave soldiers of the most cherished Singularity, 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 military 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?


    ¡°What the hell! That¡¯s like running a lemonade stand on Tuesday and getting appointed as Secretary of Commerce Wednesday! How?! Why?!¡±


    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 engineers as a weapon of last resort. Like a P90 SMG that¡¯s made of stainless steel and twenty pounds heavier.


    They really should have upgraded it with space age materials-


    I freeze, feeling like an idiot. How could I forget my new powers! [-10 energy] spams within my skull three times, hitting the maximium ''improvement'' for this particular item. Less than the helmet accepted. The first spell seemed to eject gunk from the barrel cleaning the well used internals, while the second bathed it''s internal mechanisms in yellow light, lengthening the pistol by three inches and making it a pound lighter. Power swirled through steel, magnets, capacitors, and rails, augmenting them in a sort of post-manufacturing impossibility.


    The SMG trembled now a weapon of lethal efficiency. The final modification a harmonized induction loop, amplifying the velocity of each round by capturing formerly wasted energy. With each burst, the weapon would shred with storms of bladed needle-darts.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Still worthless against a tank.


    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 carving ruts 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. My micro-railgun can¡¯t take out a Juggernaut, probably can¡¯t even damage its sensors but technicians do not wear heavy armor. That is not their job and the Novan Technocracy does not waste resources making tools better at jobs they are not intended to perform. My flechettes won¡¯t pierce armor, but twenty or so will certainly break through the transparent polymers used in their overhead visors, a style of helmet nearly identical to a Terran marine''s overhead fishbowl.


    Cool, twenty headshots. Difficult, but Sable''s done better with worse gear. I''ll need to lay an ambush with distractors and cover. No matter what, the fourth heartbeat has become essential. Be it a sleeping Novan soldier, or an imprisoned ally. Zerglings hunt 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.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: You okay?


    The chat message makes me jump, sending a burst of flechettes stapling through crates, striking several metallic reinforcements in a firework of sparks. One zergling looks at me, teeth barred, entirely unentertained by my game of peekaboo.


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


    >Terran Thena: Yeah, smart doglings. Like¡­ creepy smart. Idk if we¡¯d love golden retrievers if they could read our minds like these boys do.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: as if dogs arent already smarter than the terminally online


    >Matriarch Hygieia: they get to live the NEET life


    >Matriarch Hygieia: free food free rent and we literally fight over who gets to raise their babies


    >Matriarch Hygieia: dogs are already smarter


    They halt before an immense, quadruple-sized crate, sealed beneath something unnatural. Not quite plating, not quite a shell, it¡¯s shrink-wrapped in metal, the foil clinging so tightly that its like an inverted marshmallow. Round studs maintaining the exterior dimensions like the rigid bones of a square ribcage.


    -Or a cage.


    An airtight cage.


    A warning pings in my Singularity helmet every soldier I¡¯ve found here has been human. Earth conscripts, nothing exotic, and certainly no engineered bioweapons. Just flesh and blood. Something in my gut knots tight. I sprint forward, flechette pistol falling; shovel rising. One thrust rips into the vacuum sealing, unleashing a hiss as pressure equalizes.


    ¡°Rip open the cage!¡±


    The zerglings lunge. Front paws carve through the reinforced bars like rotted wood. Steel rods shriek as they snap free, fragments ricocheting off the walls, one glancing past my leg before I can even react. My pulse spikes. Another strike and they¡¯ll eviscerate the heart we came to save-


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


    They obey, claws dripping with red ruin. I swallow, praying they haven''t ended the heartbeat. It''s weaker now, faint.


    Within the cage is a stack of human bodies. Some are white skinned turning blue around the orifices. Long dead. While others leak blood. Fresher¡­ I tear into the pile, dragging bodies and severed limbs out, searching. Blood is everywhere, my shovel scrapes through the crimson pool, the metal catching on something sickly spongy. Clotted. Coagulated. At least a day old. Gasmask filters out any scents but Sable Yurten¡¯s flash training was comprehensive, and I can infer the stench these corpses would exude from prior experiences. No wonder it was sealed.


    Shovel connects with a steel bar thicker than my thumb. At least an inch thick, yet it bends beneath the dogling¡¯s attack. 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¡­ Suddenly I remember the swelling glands beneath the spines, they most certainly can. An improvement made by Hygieia or her apparent confidant, Mr Eugenic Hitler. Which gives me pause, not sure how I feel about having ¡®Eugenic Hitler¡¯ as my cheerleader. Or what the term means. Once upon a time 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¡­


    Because right now, I could use a friend. Someone human -untainted- who could remind me I¡¯m not alone in this madness. Someone to keep me sane.


    I see a 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. I knew these creatures were strong. I knew they weren¡¯t ordinary. But watching one reduce a femur to splinters like it was a cheap dog biscuit?


    Ignorant to my thundering heart, the ling resumes his task, darting forward to drag 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, chunks of flesh from the bisected body clinging to his chitinous hide. 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? For christsake! The cage was sealed and stuffed full of bodies.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± I say, retrieving the discarded railgun before I understand what my body is doing.


    Sable is trying to regain control, to execute her orders, to execute this child. I freeze, keeping the gun pointed low. Then set it down.


    Sable¡¯s training screams at me. Shrieking bloody murder about Technocracy experiments and traps. Any Singularity soldier would gun down this girl and erase the deed from memory in a heartbeat. But I am not the flashtraining. A false personality cannot command me. 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, taking her warning under advisement. Obviously the child is dangerous, a cute summary of the Syrak-9''s moral compass. Cataclysmically wrong.


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


    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. Or human. Maybe Sable is right. I should gun her down right here and now, 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 Athena Finley.¡±


    One zergling edges closer, positioning itself between me and the approaching threat, its sinewy frame taut with vigilance. The spines along its back graze my chest, a subtle yet deliberate signal-they¡¯re coming. The Technomancy engineers made it into the trenches without getting blown apart. Damn, was really hoping the artillery bombardment would solve that future heavy weapons problem. Guess they missed, or we¡¯re out of smart munitions¡­ If Field Marshal Bazzhole deployed them. We¡¯ve got a few moments before the engineers reach us. Besides, there is no where to run outside. Not with an incoming Juggernaut and four techs. I¡¯m trapped. All thoughts of setting up an ambush with a fellow soldier vanish. This child can¡¯t hold a gun, nor would I allow it.


    My hand strokes the nearest zergling. Gloves running along a heavy skull, it paws the air with claws so disproportionate I envision a circus clown like Mickey mouse. Or a mole.


    Start digging! Dig a hole you and I can hide in. The zergling doesn¡¯t hesitate, launching itself toward the rear chasm, striking the ground with violent fervor, excavating dirt faster than I can think. One glance at the slashing paws keeps me from getting in the way. Those things are cutting through rocks as if they are snowballs, aint no way I am going near those.


    The child blinks. Alien pupils narrow slightly, surprisingly they only appear half dilated in the total darkness. Well adapted to confinement. Or cages. 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. He reaches the boxes, discovering a pleasant surprise. I can use his senses to mark them for teleportation. A small nicety that is deeply appreciated, we¡¯ll need food, and I don¡¯t have time to neatly pack a backpack. Not when the Juggernaut is only minutes away.


    ¡°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.¡± I whisper, not meaning to say the curse aloud.


    Unfortunately for us both, the girl child hears me.


    ¡°Ith at my name?¡± Asks 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 three seconds later a deep rumble tells me they¡¯ve landed. Missiles at close range mean enemies and allies are nearby. 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. Now lets get you out of that cage¡­¡±

 Chapter 10 Juggernaut

    I wish I remembered the bunker was wired with explosives, but sometimes, ignorance is bliss. A saying I embodied as we freed Kerrigan. Turns out zergling teeth treat steel like a game of rock paper scissors, shredding Kerrigan¡¯s chains like wet paper. Though there was no safe way to get the collar off her throat. Besides, I have more pressing concerns. Like the Juggernaut who''s rumbling engines set our tremorsense ablaze. An unmistakable rumble of heavy gear breathing down our necks.


    It would be here in moments.


    One look at my internal sensors told me radiation inside the bunker was about 50 rem. My helmet converted the alien unit automatically into values my tiny Earthling engineer brain could grasp, one perk of being brainwashed in a tube. 50 rem would lead to light radiation poisoning after a minute of exposure, hair and teeth falling out, possible organ failure...


    For an adult.


    I swallowed, understanding she was already in a bad way. But the way she was stored, puts us in a double bind without time.


    Three technicians and the heavy engineer pause their march, halting for a reason my tremorsense can¡¯t identify. Thirty seconds, that¡¯s all the time I dare risk.


    ¡°C¡¯mere, take my hand.¡± I say, helping Kerrigan out of the cage, she is covered in disgusting ick, things I hastily smear off with assistance from the ration-kit¡¯s version of a wetwipe.


    Even in space, washing your hands is important. Moreso than on earth. On Earth we''ve evolved immune systems to fight off harmful bacteria or coexist with them, but in space there are all kinds of life. Macroscopic and microscopic. Like the first time Bubonic plague was introduced to Europe, except that wasn''t entirely true because they''d been exposed previously and some had resistance to the phage. Here on Syrak-9 bioweapons were allowed, alien microbes that you have zero biological defenses against could liquify your insides until you pissed brain jelly. So Kerrigan¡¯s hands come first, wet wipes clean them off and I hand her one of the C-bars. Narrowly remaining calm as the Juggernaut rolls closer.


    It¡¯s moving slower now, probably took damage. A small miracle.


    Opposite the Juggernaut¡¯s trench, at a T junction, four technicians are trading shots with a Tulverian warband. Two fall and kick, limbs missing. Victims of Tulverian energy weapons. Despite their reptilian nature, Tulvarians are highly intelligent, well okay the average Tulvarian eats rocks for fiber so they¡¯re idiots, but Sable insists the scientists are genetically engineered cause those quacks are on the opposite end of the bell curve making them proportionately smarter than the others are dumb.


    At least that¡¯s the Singularity¡¯s leading theory, since it would explain how they cooked up some of the finest energy weapons in the galaxy. Man portable and precise to a fault. Odd design track for plasma weaponry since the Tulverians generally don¡¯t wear armor and precise plasma is the galaxy¡¯s most logical answer to armor-


    -A dozen of them are gunned down by two flechette pistols, falling still. I feel nothing as they fall quiescent. Without motion the tremorsense has nothing to see, causing bodies to vanish as they die. It must be shock. People just died and I couldn¡¯t even feel recoil. Worse, I¡¯m relieved that we have a few more seconds.


    ¡°Eh, fukit.¡± I say, already envious over dead Tulvarian plasma rifles.


    One shot from those rifles is like a dragoon¡¯s main cannon. Able to blaze through power armor with ease. Maybe even a Juggernaut''s heavy plating if we can get multiple. Or if I can augment one...


    I¡¯ll start with one. Drooling over xeno tech is only fair turnabout, as the iguanas would be drooling over me if I died. Albeit for very different reasons.


    Shall I fetch them? Asks the tunneling dogling.


    ¡°Whafths thith?¡± Kerrigan asks.


    I almost ignore her question, too stunned by the zergling¡¯s request. Just a minute ago he was next to me and now he''s fifty feet into the walls, tunneling faster than I can walk, digging along a sort of pre-existing void. Claws rend and tear stone, auguring the hole into a passage wide enough to squeeze through. There is no line of sight nor any possible way I could have physically heard him. Yet I had.


    Hive mind? Oh man, this¡¯ll take some getting used to.


    Yes. I think, mentally marking him as ling-ling2. A smile crosses my lips at the idiotic name. But why not. Ling1 is still bringing me ration packs -from a pile that was once taller than myself and is only a few inches- dropping one next to Kerrigan.


    ¡°What? Oh, its food. A gift for my friend.¡± I say, trying to butter up the bioweapon with chocolate.


    In theory this is the best plan Sable Yurten has, although there are at least four variations of Singularity bioweapons that explode when given sweets. I cross my fingers, watching Kerrigan closely. Purple eyes observe the bar for a second, uncannily verticle against a normal human nose. She sniffs it, frowns. Then cocks her head to the side.


    ¡°It¡­ doesn¡¯th smell like meath.¡± She mutters.


    Meat¡­ She said the word like it¡¯s nothing. A common thing. But that little choice in diction confirms my worst fears. I refuse to dwell on it, forcing away the thought by casting my ability on the -now disgustingly saturated- wetwipe. Blonde light sweeps the material like a brand new set of windshield wipers, scrolling the gore to one corner and doubling the wipe''s size.


    I meet Kerrigan''s eyes, giving her a final hasty scrub. With both Novan kill squads delayed we have a second to think. If I panic, so will this child. Best stay calm.


    ¡°Chocolate is a bean I think, and sugar comes from plants as well. If you don¡¯t like it that¡¯s fine, but give it a nibble.¡± I say pantomiming a wink at the girl. Kinda difficult considering I¡¯m in full anti radiation gear and mask.


    She cocks her head, not understanding the gesture. Probably grew up in a test tube of her own, with no understanding of the world or other people. At best she¡¯ll end up a sociopath.


    No, at best she¡¯ll enjoy chocolate! I mentally correct. I know there isn¡¯t time. We need to stuff her into a suit and hide. NOW!


    Ling1 understands my desire, somehow depositing torn gear at my feet -easier to cover Kerrigan with and sealable via my ability- then slinks off to push an empty crate between the entrance and us. A distraction that might buy us thirty seconds.


    I stuff clawed feet into an oversized rad layer, using augur to half-shrink half-weld the rad layer into a protective jumpsuit, crudely covering my only friend and praying we got to her in time.


    Tremorsense activates, the technicians are on their feet, all four of them. Not even the loss of limbs can stop a Novan cyborg. I swallow, checking on Ling1 and Lingling2. They''re happily digging through the crevice claws bringing them within a few feet of escape.


    After two lings pass through it''s still a tight fit for Kerrigan and nearly unpassable for myself, my helmet could get stuck at a half dozen different pinches. Dirt moves faster than any direwolf or dog could shift it, proving these lings are stronger than any canine has a right to be. I try not to shudder. At this point it would only scare my fellow earthling.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Except the more gore I wipe off, the less human Kerrigan appears. Her bones aren¡¯t human, they¡¯re thicker and more prominent than a child¡¯s, with extra ribs and actual claws protruding from oversized hands. Fangs ¨Cher teeth cannot be called anything else¨C bite into the chocolate bar.


    They bake those things to be tough, turning them into a thick taffy so it travels well and can survive a violent reentry if supply ships get shot down. But it¡¯s still full of everything a body craves. Kerrigan¡¯s eyes light up at the taste, going speechless as she looks at the bar then to me. I smile. Kids love candybars, hell, adults love candybars! And this is space candy, for extra goodness. I think¡­ A flicker of memory runs through my mind, it¡¯s Jim aboard the tax ship, ¡®recycle the fatties¡¯.


    Note to self, never look at the ingredient list. It¡¯ll be safer¨C


    ¨CMovement trips tremorsense. Engineers are delivering coup-de-gras, headshotting the already dead Tulverians just in case one survived. I cannot risk them finding me. It¡¯s time to go. One hand grasps the first helmet I can find, ready to stuff my newest friend into it when a red river flows down Kerrigan¡¯s cheek.


    I freeze, ducking to see where the blood is coming from. But her face is all pinched together,


    ¡°Are you crying?¡± I ask, baffled.


    Kids don¡¯t cry when you give them chocolate! What did I do wrong? Sure she¡¯s a bioweapon¡­ Is this how bioweapons exploded when you feed them chocolate? That would be a bit too screwed up. Even for the Technomancy who view humans the way we view a computer¡¯s ram chips. Not the whole completed stick, just the individual black squares that you¡¯ve probably never thought about in your life. Nor considered their metabolic needs or if they got a little uncomfortable after playing candy crush for two days straight.


    ¡°Kerrigan, say something, are you alright? Spit it out if it¡¯s that awful!¡±


    In way of response the ration bar disappears into her mouth.


    ¡°Sooo goooodth.¡± Mumbles Kerrigan, chomping her way through the entire bar.


    It would be way cuter if her lower jaw didn¡¯t split open, exposing a second row of teeth that sheer through the ¡®chocolate¡¯ brick like it¡¯s jello. The juxtaposition of her bleeding eyes, rows of fangs, and smile makes my heart skip several beats.


    This is the most pant-shittingly terrifying and kinda cute thing I¡¯ve ever beheld. A cacophony of chaos that shorts out my brain for a minute. Thoughts of moments like this with my unborn sibling emerge. What if I have a little brother? Dreams percolate around my brain. Til the Juggernaut fires. Further away than the engineers, but coming at double speed. Four minutes, and I only have a flechette pistol. Kerrigan holds out her hand, asking for another.


    ¡°Oh, there are more don¡¯t eat them so fast or else you¡¯ll make yourself sick. Here, eat this, its-¡± I glance at the package, reading -meat puree no 12-.


    Don¡¯t read the ingredients. I remind myself.


    ¡°Actually, not sure what it is. Give it a try. While I¡­ Look around. Actually, take this and hide in that tunnel. A big meanie is coming our way and he¡¯ll put you back in that cage.¡±


    ¡°Okay athph- aphthp- ¡­ Pfina!¡± Stutters Kerrigan, her lisp absolutely butchering my name.


    No sooner do I find a helmet than she springs across the room, claws slicing through upgraded fabric and darting through the bunker faster than a cloud, smiling broadly as she carries twenty pounds of rations into an overturned crate with her purloined booty. Tail flicking as if eight year old children normally have three foot long stingers. Darker skin runs down her spine, stretched over the vertebrae til termination near the exposed bone at the tip of her tail. All told, Kerrigan is a cute lil bioweapon.


    Designed to kill Singularity soldiers. Like me. I swallow. Unable to gun her down. Maybe she¡¯s got mind control pheromones or something, I just can¡¯t bring myself to pull the trigger.


    Please be an earthling. I pray. Already knowing she isn¡¯t human.


    Tremorsense estimates three minutes until the Juggernaut reaches us, and one minute before the technicians arrive despite two of their number missing limbs. I should be terrified, but in that same second Lingling2 bursts from his tunnel, paws slashing through fallen Tulverians. Still armed with plasma rifles.


    Not to be outdone by his twin, Ling1 digs sideways, breaking back into the bunker and sends me a picture. A sort of text message that automatically opens and begins playing video within my mind¡¯s eye. The dead Singularity soldiers, his own pile of corpses. I''m about to chastise the unhelpful mutt when I see it. A brick of plastic explosive, similar to C4 but with exponentially cruder construction. Most likely synthesized on planet in some toilet-bowl pharmacy.


    More troubling, is the wire protruding out of the explosive, a wire Ling1 follows into a nest of detonators that spiderweb through the cave. This entire bunker is lined with explosives. All waiting for a signal to detonate. A chain reaction of explosions guaranteed to turn the Juggernaut missiles into secondary and tertiary detonations. Twenty thousand pounds of fiery death.


    If it wouldn''t kill me too, this would be the best anti-tank weapon around.


    ¡°We gotta go.¡± I whisper, the sound amplified by my helmet¡¯s speakers.


    ¡°Otay Pfina.¡±


    I''m half tempted to trigger those bombs with Ling1, it''s brutish, but trading a ling for a siegetank? That''s a gold base in the pocket!  The problem is, tunnels don¡¯t block concussive waves or pressurized air. If anything, the stone walls might channel the explosion right toward us.


    ¡°We REALLY have to go!¡±


    I sweep her into my arms, barely managing to lift the kid. Whatever lab cooked her up must have been on a high-gravity world- she¡¯s dense; a truckkun full of bricks weighs less than Kerrigan does. She¡¯s like some awful practical joke involving metal mario. We ain¡¯t going nowhere fast. My ankle screams in protest, feeling invigorated from the effort, and agony under strain.


    Pain lances up my ankle, fresh and excruciating. We make it two steps into the tunnel before my foot gives out and we collapse, my helmeted head bouncing off stone walls on the way to my knees. I can''t carry her, not alone, we need some kind of vehicle or transport, if not for their spines, I¡¯d slap a saddle on a Zergling and have Kerrigan ride one straight out of here.


    ¡°Crap¡­¡± I mutter aloud, looking back.


    One crate and a pile of dirt are all that seperate us from the bunker proper. Sure there is a stack, a sort of crate mountain at the bunker''s center. Another standard operational procedure, put anything that can take a bullet in a pile that obscures the front entrance.


    Later excavators will dig out the bunker on the sides so no amount of penetration will harm the contents within, but this is just a supply dump. Hastily dug with improvised tools. So used crates filled with dirt serve as basic fortifications, not like anyone gets to leave Syrak-9 with equipment. Not with automated anti-air batteries under every rock.


    I pause, untangling myself from Kerrigan.


    "Ever play hide and seek?" I ask.


    Kerrigan shakes her head once.


    "The rules are simple, if you can hide so well that no one finds you, I''ll give you another chocolate bar."


    "I don''th like thith game."


    I snort, trying not to laugh in frustration. "Here, I''ll set a time for five minutes. Don''t let the tank or men in armor find you."


    She shakes her head, no.


    "Please Kerrigan. I-" My voice catches, unable to finish the thought.


    We don''t have a choice!


    Kerrigan''s ears slump, as if she heard my thought. Her clawed feet pitter patter over stone, disappearing into the tunnel like a wounded cat. My heart tightens, but I''ll only get the chance to apologize if she survives. This is for the best.


    Novan Technicians stumble through the trench, a hundred yards from the entrance. My time is up.


    ''Ling1, hide near the detonators.''


    I back out of the tunnel on hands and knees, taking one last look. Electrical panels blink, marking ''crate mountain'' as formerly sensitive cargo. If you enter the wrong code or try to force them open, a booby trap will activate. The most common being an explosive, but more creative Technomancers have included viral loads, bioweaponry of a different nature. A pity really. The crates are heavy enough to be full of valuable gear, and the mountain is large enough that I know an antitank missile is most likely present. But I can¡¯t risk a detonation.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, I¡¯m hoping you¡¯re a super smart alien. Can you hack into Technomancy lockers?


    >Executrix Alaea: Not that I know of... So, maybe? But if they find out I was influencing the war, it¡¯ll be galactically bad news.


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯m going to die in the next two minutes. What happens to you if I die.


    >Executrix Alaea: ¡­


    >Terran Thena: Look, my bunker is wired with bombs, I need a vehicle, or armor or hell, anything! Help? Bad news is only a problem if we''re around to read it.


    Ling1 and Kerrigan feel it before I do. Ground rumbling, and the high pressured pops of long range railguns. I swallow, knowing I¡¯m screwed in a fight.


    >Executrix Alaea: I¡¯ll see what we can do¡­ Hang tight.


    The words wrap themselves around my throat, the last thing I hear before four Technocracy armored suits jog into the bunker. Flechette pistols at the ready. One, the heavy engineer, stoops to defuse the bombs while the others halt, forming a defensive wall around their leader. That¡¯ll buy a minute, maybe two. Maybe if we hide in the crates-


    -A sensor ping bounces off my helmet, all four suits jerk in surprise.


    Facing me.


    Shit.

 Chapter 11 Trapped like a Rabbit in a Mouse Hole

    Across Syrak-9 war raged, the fire of humanity burning all. The sky burned with exploding dropships, denying xenos resupply. Swamps boiled, and the Tulverians, in all their overbred, bio-engineered glory, died in droves.


    General Richard Ziusudra watched from Siegeclad''s inner depths, simultaneously immersed within two minds, anchored and immobilized while Siegeclad shook the earth with every step, sending ripples through the nearby swamp and streams. The melee stretched before him, humans breaking against the tide of xenos monstrocities.


    Nightmares of biology- a species of amphibious crocodilians, each caste bred for a specific purpose. Massive elephantine crocodiles led the charge, short mouths rising from the swamp, propelled forward on six rending legs. Their oversized cleaver-teeth rending the air, acting as diversions while nimble crocodilians -lean and serpentine with electrostatic spines- wove between them, claws glinting with bioluminescent venom. An ancient weapon that well complimented the plasma rifles held by those very same talons.


    And yet, humanity held.


    C9 Sentinel rifles cracked in disciplined volleys, searing through scaled flesh. Human bayonets, fixed with a grim finality and humming with Siegeclad''s solarium magics, found gaps in the Tulverians¡¯ hides, piercing deep into organs never meant to meet steel.


    Richard''s voice boomed across the battlefield, amplified by Siegeclad''s reactors.


    "Have no fear, for I am with you. Advance."


    Calm words channeled solarium through the air, invigorating flagging soldiers and sending shudders through the crocodilian''s simple minds. One of the great warbeasts charging forward, eyes red with terror like a cornered animal. Its bone-crushing blade raised high. Richard frowned. Siegeclad smiled.


    With a single movement, Siegeclad¡¯s gauntlet caught the blade mid-swing. Servos screaming as he wrenched sideways, tearing it free of the alien''s maw. The creature reared back, howling in agony- cut short by Siegeclad''s maul of choice, a sort of gravity augmented hammer capable of weighing several tons or mere ounces. The weapon connected with the Tulverian¡¯s skull, and with an ear-splitting crack, the beast¡¯s head cratered into its own chest.


    Violence that sent waves across the battlefield, lashing the humans forward. Particle rifles tearing through xenos armor. But the Tulverians fought on, plasma rifles tearing through the unprotected soldiers with ease.


    Richard scowled, he was here to save humans, and had the power to act, snapping their fingers and once more encasing the soft-shelled humans in iridescent golden armor. Temporary shielding that would fade in time, yet deflect everything -from mosquitoes to anti-tank explosives- until then.


    Plasma deflected off human skin, drawing a dozen vertical pupils to the only unshielded sapien left, Richard. Blue hellfire washing over his shields; teaching the lizards why they called this heavy knight "Siegeclad". He turned, raising the shoulder-mounted cannon. A battery of iguanas was nothing to them. Four streams of armor penetrating grenades cut through the plasma, popping the glowing crocs like overripe grapes.


    Human infantry surged forward, driving their bayonets into reeling Tulverians, trampling the fallen in a tide of blood and grit. Corporal Rogers dashed forward, impaling a wounded crocodile through its throat, then pulled the trigger, blasting his rifle free of the now headless xeno. Humanity did not need genetically modified castes, not when they had a bioweapon like the Siegeclad, and the will to fight.


    The remaining Tulverians faltered. Their wills cracked, by Siegeclad''s odd powers, their numbers dwindling in the face of human brutality. A soldier, covered in alien blood, shot a Tulverian striker point-blank, the energy weapon sending the creature into a flaming wreck of yellow light. Another human, missing an arm drove his blade into an iguana''s gut, twisting until its organs spilled into the swamp like spilled cargo.


    And still Siegeclad drove them forward. One snap of his fingers wreathed the humans in golden solarium light, a skintight shield to deflect claws, seal wounds, and stiffen spines. That was the last straw for the Tulverians, who fled, diving into their swamps in a frenzied retreat. Often climbing over their wounded kin.


    Silence overtook the battlefield. Then, a single cheer rose among the human soldiers, growing into a victorious roar.


    Richard stepped forward looming over a wounded pink-scale, the last of the enemy. A guttural growl reached his ears the xenos struggling to rise, attempting to crawl away. Siegeclad''s eyes locked onto the creature, his face a blank mask.


    "You get to live." Siegeclad said, snapping his fingers and encasing the alien in his shielding. "Take this message to your commander. If you interfere with our crusade against the Novans again, I will bury you. Not just on Syrak-9, but across the entire spiral arm."


    The xeno blinked dumbly, but when no more words followed it jogged into the swamp, swimming home.


    Richard watched it go, deeply annoyed that -despite there being THREE ATHENAS- he still had not found a single one.


    "Where did you go?" Richard muttered, opening his HUD and crossing off this quadrant.


    If she wasn''t here, then the Novan Technocracy of Steel had gotten ahold of her; and that was a fate he could not allow.


    "Bastion," Richard began, speaking directly to the Singularity Warmind, an AI wholly devoted to war, "Establish a defensive line, recover the wounded, then deploy the other two bioweapons. It''s time to erase crack those Juggernauts."


    "Yes sir."


    ---


    -Athena-


    Five things occurred in the same second.


    First, I swallow, sensor ping still echoing through my helmet.


    Secondly, the four technicians spread out, slicing the pie around crate mountain. One on each side, While the heaviest tech curls around his detonator, no matter what, he holds the power to Chuck Norris our asses with twenty tons of explosives.


    Third, Kerrigan¡¯s pupils narrow to slits, taking on a purple luminescence. She¡¯s a distant shadow one second, then ducking between my legs the next. I reflexively reach for her, narrowly pulling back as her tail stinger passes an inch away from my palm.


    Before I can think of how close I just came to death, Lingling2 chomps into a dead iguana. Acrid Tulverian blood tickles his nose making mine itch in sympathetic irritation.


    Fifth, a pulsating alarm appears on my HUD, an icon that sends a shudder through my body. The flash trained portion of my brain warns that it¡¯ll be safer to pull off my mask and empty the flechette pistol into my brain rather than face what is coming. Field Marshal Bazzhole deployed the Singularity¡¯s most terrifying weaponry. Part of me is stunned that their interplanetary AI network approved this particular weapon, though the grinding attrition of Syrak-9 makes for the ideal battlefield. Of all the bloody shitholes for an army to fight through this one screams to the heavens for THAT unpredictable weapon. Tight quarters mean hand to hand combat is guaranteed, while armor and personal shielding are prerequisites to survive the artillery barrages and heavy weaponry of mechanized armies.


    Now I understand why Baz is a Field Marshal. Should anything go awry, he¡¯ll be the ideal patsy. A newly appointed officer who was flash trained into command with zero prior experience or relevant skills. In other words, the perfectly explainable wig out. Who unleashed demons upon Syrak-9.


    ¡°Please, let this one be sane.¡± I whisper, falling prone.


    I crawl through the crates, positioning the central pile of equipment between myself and the entrance.


    ¡®Ling1, tunnel to my left, if someone comes around take em out.¡¯


    He¡¯s already burrowed into the earth, digging a path towards the technicians. Practically swimming through the dirt.


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    ¡°Oh man, I really hope that stinger pierces armor.¡±


    Zerglings always beat marines in small numbers, an analogy I pray holds true here. Technicians aren''t combatants, and two of their number are missing limbs! But power armor would turn a starving toddler into a super Olympian capable of running faster and jumping higher and deadlifting more trucks than any unmodified humans.


    Rumbling shakes the bunker. Missile tubes clatter against each other, crates jitter up and down. Two minutes till the Juggernaut reaches us. It¡¯ll probably turn me into pink mist, just like those Tulverians. Crates begin to fall. Knocked askance by the tremors.


    Which is when I see it. A tunneling tank, it kinda looks like a spinning dildo through the tremorsense. Four figures reside within, a pilot and three passengers, one of which is unmistakable as the weapon. Five times heavier than the others yet occupying the same volume.


    Bile pushes up my esophagus. Terror made manifest. I begin to pant, hyperventilating. My torso curls around the flechette pistol, holding it steady as a Technocracy Technician slices the pie around crate mountain, the maneuver awkward with a missing arm. Braced as I am -with two lings to triangulate tremorsense- the man finds me ready.


    One hundred needles whizz through the air in a half second. Accurate fire repeated to depletion of my magazine. Projectiles bounce harmlessly off armor, incapable of penetrating the ceramic layers. Good thing the armor isn¡¯t my target, his glass visor is. I''ve aimed well and achieved the tactic of ''Accuracy by volume''. Sixty steel darts impact his visor.


    The first bounces off with no apparent damage. Same for the second. Then ten connect faster than my mind can process. Cracks spiderweb across the dome. Needles eleven and twelve pop it open. Triggering the HELP system. Steel shutters deploy, automatically slamming forward to seal his faceplate a half second behind my sixtieth hit. Nearly forty needles enter the man¡¯s face. Eyes pop, teeth shatter, four needles pass through his spine bending and keyholing on their way through flesh. Most importantly of all, a single needle tumbles through his vertebrae, permanently crippling the man.


    [+1 biomass]


    [+1 technician power armor]


    All I see is a geyser of blood. Needles ricochet inside the helmet clanking and thudding into a blender. The man collapses going entirely limp. I reload, rolling hard to my left. Fire and move. Only I stop short, resting on my shoulder as the single most valuable piece of Technocracy hardware comes into view. Sable''s number 2 highest priority capture target, right behind the Novan AI''s mainframe, if it''s even on the planet. Unlike this nanofactory, mostly a block of steel wrapped in composites to keep it protected¨C


    -A faint tingle emanates from my chest, and in a blink the entire room glows with faerie light. Back to total darkness before my helmet can detect the change in light.


    [-100 energy]


    One of the others has drained my energy, casting one of the abilities I cannot. A sort of scanner sweep that gives all three of us shared vision of the bunker and my immediate circumstances.


    I''d be screaming in excitement if I weren''t fighting for my life.


    >Executrix Alaea: A NANOFACTORY! I¡¯m taking that. Shit, where am I gonna put it? Feck. uhmmmm. Oh, what the hell is that tunneling? Dude, don¡¯t die. Wait, is that a Juggernaut? BRO!


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯M BUSY


    Chat operates fast as thought. A good thing. Otherwise I¡¯d be dead.


    A second technician, this one missing a leg, leaps over crate mountain, power armor hurling him bodily into the ceiling''s superstructure with brute force punching an arm into metal grating. Flechette pistol barks tearing through the two crates I was in just seconds earlier. He walks the shots into me, eight needles tearing into my arm and shoulder.


    Cold envelopes my arm as nerves shred. All sensation vanishes from the limb, hell, I can¡¯t even tell if the arm is still connected or not.


    I¡¯m losing blood. Training takes over, repeating drilled mantra.


    Kill this one, then tourniquet the bleed.


    My own pistol rises to the target, shaking as one arm fails to obey. Maybe if I¡¯m quick the Singularity can find a prosthetic.


    The suspended technician reloads, his suit performing the function for him.


    He''s got me dead to rights. Our pistol muzzles lining up against each other, sights rising an inch above them. Aiming at our faces.


    We pull our triggers.


    Dirt explodes beneath my chest launching me ten feet in a cartwheel that would put me in contention for the Paralympics. Sparks rain as one hundred flechettes clatter off the whirling drill. Metallic flooring shatters as a drill penetrates the bunker floor. A roof hatch opens and my worst fears sprout from on high. Red, black, and a dancing syandana of golden light compliment a woman¡¯s curves. Wide hips, a hint of abs, and perky tits, like an attractive runner.


    Right up until I see her face. It¡¯s smooth, featureless. An unfinished marble sculpture. She springs upwards, dual wielding pistols -if the weapons can be classified so timidly- one looks like three sawn-off shotguns duck taped together while the other is a monstrosity of platinum and electrum steel that seems like it would be most at home on Blackbeard¡¯s pirate belt.


    I would laugh, if not for the bright colors. There are three reasons to stand out on the battlefield, the most common is so the enemy won¡¯t murder your medic. While the second is because you¡¯re too stupid to realize bright colors make you a target. But the third reason tightens my sphincter.


    You want people to shoot at you, revealing their positions while you tank the damage.


    Most would achieve a simulacra of immortality with layers of shielding and armor, like a Starcraft Immortal with hardened shielding and the barrier ability but this ¡®woman¡¯ fits within a swimmer''s silhouette, save for odd protrusions on her armor. It¡¯s not Singularity standard issue like my trenchcoat is. No, her armor might actually stop a bullet, as evidenced by hundreds of tiny nicks and dents in it. Prior attempts at ending this bioweapon¡¯s existence. Jutting prominences hint at being grown in a lab rather than forged and fitted; while humanoid affectations suggest this monster remembers her humanity differently than myself.


    A bulbous thorax extends from the figure¡¯s lower back glowing with yellow energy. Dozens of rods spray from the thorax washing over the bunker. Over me. They move through solid objects faster than light, leaving afterimages of energy as they scan. Before I blink they congregate into a half dozen solid tendrils. Linking the bioweapon with targets. One rod extends to each technocracy technician, one to Ling1, and another to the distant Juggernaut.


    The larger of her two pistols speaks, sending three slugs punching through a technician¡¯s power armor. Tremorsense informs of the slugs final destination, ten feet into the dirt.


    She ascends to her apex, hanging in midair for a microsecond as gravity consumes her upward acceleration and begins to drag her down. Thrusters puff, keeping her aloft. From my vantage she may as well be a destroying angel, hovering with death in both hands. The second pistol screams with recoil so intense it buoys her up. Six barrels fire at once, sending a half dozen slugs through the ceiling technician¡¯s helmet. Rounds carve a hole through his neck all the way to his chest where a full pound of lead poisons his heart via six holes. He slumps, boots still mag locked to the ceiling. Her own foot lashes out, slashing through armor, faceplate, and spine in one energized cut. Beheading the man for good measure.


    A dark thought crawls out of my bleeding arm.


    Hmm, guess that¡¯s one way to hang someone.


    Second pistol empty, she drops it, mag locks pull it out of the air, anchoring it to her hip. Her electrum pistol barks once, shattering chitin and spine to cut Ling1 in half. The gunfight finally catches the heavy technician¡¯s attention just in time for him to catch three slugs from her heavy pistol. How it shoots three slugs from one barrel is a fascinating impossibility I want to understand, no I need to understand! I take a single step forward and slump-


    -torso going numb.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right. I got shot.¡± I mutter, vision beginning to darken.


    To my horror, those words alert the weapon. Her -deeply disconcerting- thorax pulses once emitting a wave of yellow energy. Like really, she¡¯s a half bug, half woman, waif that doesn¡¯t reach my chin yet has more power than a Singularity superheavy walker. Light-power washes the bunker and myself.


    All told, the pain of being shot wasn¡¯t too bad, it hurt, but it hurt like a thorn pricks. Sharp pain that fades each second. In fact, I haven¡¯t even noticed my bleeding lung. Not until the bioweapon-woman curses me. Flesh regrows instantly, a miracle soon corrupted by inconceivable pain as the needles push their way through my flesh at a tortoisian pace. Thin and sharp is how to pierce armor, yet these needles are designed to bend then spin through tissue after piercing armor, to maximize internal trauma.


    It is these bent, inch long blades that are healed out of me.


    Screaming fills my ears. Probably my own. Hard not to scream when eight blades razor through me, falling out of my body as constant waves of healing repair it.


    Minutes pass, or seconds. I¡¯m in way too much pain to count. Shooting too. One of the techheads managed a final salvo of flechettes, a full magazine. One hundred steel needles that bounce off the weapon¡¯s citrine shielding. Personal energy shielding! Now that is something I would give my left tit for. Another pulse hits and my mind clears instantly. So sharply I wonder if she stabbed me with a pound of cocaine.


    The weapon drops a detonator on my helmet, Tight beaming a single order to me.


    ¡°I have no heavy weapons on me so it''s up to you soldier. When that Juggernaut rolls in here, destroy it. Once that is accomplished get back to your squad.¡± She says, then does a standing backflip to cover twenty feet up and back into the tunneling tank. I¡¯m not sure how, but no part of her touches the hatch, a perfect swish despite thorax, protruding armor, and weapons.


    Her order is optimistic. We both know I¡¯ll explode alongside the Juggernaut, but at least this bioweapon is kind enough to lie. Maybe kindness doesn¡¯t factor into the decision, she may not have any comprehension of death.


    I try to respond and taste iron. Blood aspirates into my throat. At some point during my screaming the vehicle repositioned itself, and now it departs once more. Drill plows through crates into the bunker¡¯s wall then angles downward, tunneling away.


    Outside the Juggernaut is silent, frozen in time by some immutable force. Maybe an EMP grenade of some kind? No time to stop and think. I need to get the hell out of here before the Juggernaut reactivates. I climb to my feet, stumbling against the nanofactory.


    If only we could capture this. Beam it away¡­


    >Terran Thena: Please. Beam me out?


    >Executrix Alaea: You know I can¡¯t.


    >Executrix Alaea: Don¡¯t give up like a lil bitch. Not when I have a plan.


    >Terran Thena: What plan?


    >Executrix Alaea: They make Juggernauts on world. Pull a Tychus.


    Hacking coughs rip through my lungs, expunging the blood from at least one bullet, maybe two. Tychus. One word, but talking to yourself has the benefit of shorthand. It¡¯s a good plan.

 Chapter 12 WTF is Tychus?

    1 / 2 Biomass


    0 / 1 Mechanized


    -No production capacity-


    The Nanofactory churns to life, light appearing within.


    [Manufacturing capacity obtained]


    >Executrix Alaea: Hmmmm, this ability is kinda awesome, weird that it drained energy from you and Hygieia... But girl, I''ve got full control of the nanofactory. Oh, you''ve got five minutes before that Juggernaut recovers from the bioweapon''s EMP.


    >Terran Thena: Your initials should be AS for AssHole. Important into FIRST!


    >Terran Thena: Wait, which ability?


    >Executrix Alaea: Uhm... The only one that''s not greyed out? Says, Oracle''s Sonar. Level 1, it''s description reads ''base cost 50, activate to view an area remotely, will grant enhanced vision within the area for 1 minute. May expend more energy to increase duration. Will power unsecured devices within the area of effect.'' Yeah, so, it''s scanner sweep, but will also recharge your phone.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: i only have ''Neith''s Symphony'' level 0 / 10


    Their words send me to the floor, faceplanting exactly where I already was. Turns out I never got up after the demon healed me. A blessing in disguise as I now look through my internal HUD, smiling slightly as energy creeps up at a steady 1% per second. After my first ability ''Augur'', comes ''Neith''s Symphony'' greyed out and with no description, Oracle''s Sonar which is likewise inaccessible, and finally ''Voidwalker''s Paradox'' level 0. Level up to unlock.


    I inhale sharply, level up to unlock?


    Sharp inhalation after being shot was a mistake. Blood rises, nearly choking me. My gloved hands narrowly free my gasmask before a hacking cough purges my lungs of coagulating blood. All while a clawed figure tip toes towards me.


    "You ohtay Pfina?" Asks a small voice, her reinforced hands patting my back.


    Kerrigan is alright. Relief fills my heart, soothing my hacking cough. I spit, sending a wad or crimson phegm onto the floor.


    "I''ll live. Thank you." I gasp, rising to my feet and beginning to strip.


    Four minutes to execute ''Tychus''. Thank god I''ve got Alaea to help me. Nanofactory screens illuminate then run through a thousand schematics in nanoseconds, all skimmed and beamed to Alaea. How is she reading or thinking that fast? A shiver runs down my spine. She''s an eternal alien. Mrs. EarlyAccess got the luckiest roll of us all. I shake my head once. This nanofactory should be AI hardened, able to resist hacking attempts. A thousand ideas occur to me at once and I take the most obvious and appealing course of action.


    >Terran Thena: Hack the Juggernaut.


    >Executrix Alaea: Already tried, the person inside sent me pictures of cats flipping me off. -_- They¡¯re wetware systems. Earthling core. Hope Whorely got turned into one of them. If she likes getting piledrived so much, she can try it with a spaceship.


    I cackle at the thought. Humor fighting off the terrifying abilities of an interstellar hacker. At least, it tries to. Alaea isn¡¯t Athena anymore. But what if the reference is more like a model number. You wouldn¡¯t name a human ¡®Mount Goddess of all knowledge¡¯ so why would an alien race name my other half exactly that¡­? Logic is quick on this simple problem. She¡¯s an Artificial Intelligence. Or they plugged her mind -my mind- into some kind of computer. What can I do if part of me exists only in cyberspace?


    A snapping sensation fills my mind. It¡¯s Ling-ling2 trying to fetch those Tulverian Pulsers.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bite the gun in half you idiot!¡±


    He cowers, tail falling between his knees.


    I sigh, these lings can talk, but they aren¡¯t fully sentient either. Closer to a dog¡¯s intelligence than a fully functioning human being. Or my cousin Carl, that dude is dumb enough to walk through a blizzard in his boxers. How he is still sucking air surprises me each Christmas. I gulp. There won¡¯t be another Christmas with the family. Not this year. Or next.


    Lingling2 whimpers softly; reminds me of dad yelling at our golden retriever. Whether he pissed on the carpet and deserves it or not, everyone feels like a piece of shit.


    I temper my voice, these lings might be the only companions I have. Best treat them right. ¡°Hey, look its fine. Go touch another one. Don¡¯t bite it. You¡¯re doing great.¡±


    Juggernaut''s engines roar back to life, their deep rumbling shaking my boots. Kerrigan appears at my side, pressing against my injured leg. I brace myself, expecting the sharp give of my sprained ankle; only to find it fully healed. Strong and steady, like a rock. That she demon weapon did more than just cure my bullet wounds. What exactly are the limits of her healing?


    But what was the price? I wonder, hoping I don¡¯t have space cancer from the instant healing. After all, cancer is just rapid cellular regeneration. Unmoderated healing always carries an accelerated risk of cancer directly corollary to the amount of cellular tissue regrown.


    ¡°Is Pfina otay?¡± Asks Kerrigan.


    I pat her head, too busy trying to execute ¡®Tychus¡¯. Just cause I know the plan doesn¡¯t make implementation any easier.


    >Terran Thena: Can you use the lings as targets for teleportation? The far away ling is trying to bring me a Tulverian plasma rifle.


    >Executrix Alaea: Yes, and I¡¯ll do you one better.


    AA heads-up display flickers into my vision, offering simple controls for teleportation. I can mark anything I¡¯m touching- no, more than that. Anything within ten meters of me or another linked creature in our hive mind., including anything the lings are physically touching. There are other options too, like a tagging system to mark distant objects, the touch restriction is just a filter. A way to limit the options and not spam me with ten thousand buttons or alerts. Neat-


    -Bullets cut through smoke flying a foot over my head as the Juggernaut reactivates its weaponry. We¡¯ve got a moment or two before the Juggernaut reboots all systems. Less if the pilot is experienced enough to manually control the vehicle. Part of me prays this is a newborn Earthling.


    ¡°Kerrigan, if that tank comes in here I want you to run down that tunnel. Do not look back! Don¡¯t worry about me.¡± I hiss, ducking and circling around cover to the Nanofactory¡¯s product port.


    Nanofactories were ubiquitous across Singularity and Technocracy armadas. A portable piece of human equipment that could churn out any pre-designed hardware you could imagine, great for repairs or minor fabrication. Not so great at full system construction. Sorta like an industrial sized 3d printer, complete with customizable metal injection and rubber analogs. Power armor or motorcycles are about the maximum limit of this specific machine¡¯s dimensions. Although it might be able to unfold and accommodate larger objects, like SUVs. Its capture should have me ecstatic, and it does¡­ If I could feed it materials or had any chance of protecting this bunker.


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    ¡°Ith Pfina gonna weaff me behind?¡± Kerrigan asks.


    ¡°No. I¡¯ll be right behind you. So do not stop running. Understand?¡±


    She nods, so trusting, so unguarded. I wonder if this is what the Singularity demon once was: small, alone, naked to the world, utterly exposed to violence before they had any concept of humanity.


    The nanofactory pauses, its mechanical limbs momentarily still as it loads another crate of supplies. A fragile silence settles over the bunker, but then -deep in the distance- I hear it. A low, guttural rumbling, the sound stretched and smothered by the sheer scale of it. Then come the booms, heavy and deliberate, the deep-throated cough of long-range artillery firing in unison. A rhythmic death knell echoing across the battlefield.


    What little light entering the bunker vanishes, occluded by a tank so far advanced it would be more at home in the Korpulu sector. The Juggernaut is here.


    >Terran Thena: THOR IS HERE! Where is my armor?


    >Executrix Alaea: Already sent the order to the factory. Check its readout.


    [progress halted]


    [loading supplies]


    I stay motionless, hidden behind the nanofactory¡¯s bulk, my only vision of the outside world coming from Alaea¡¯s scan. The Juggernaut hesitates. Then, inexplicably, it reverses, retreating the way it came. But something is off. It lurches, stops, then starts again. A mechanical hiccup. Three times it repeats the motion, awkward, erratic. Did the pilot botch a reboot?  If I didn¡¯t know better I''d say he was a psychopath that plays with inverted controls and someone just swapped out his controller.


    >Executrix Alaea: Oh! I gotchu fam.


    Lights fill the bunker illuminating the space with a thousand blinking LEDs. Lingling2 crawls to me, staying low. Pressing a shoulder against me in a protective squish, a way of shielding me with his body, a vestigial gesture from his originating race, and almost meaningless in the face of thermal sensors. Internal movement warns us of manufacturing progressing to the final stages within.


    The retreating juggernaut raises itself, aligning upper missile tubes to the trench¡¯s mouth. Just in time for three Juggernauts to roll over the trench outside. Treads gore the earth, leaving indents wider than I am tall. One goes up and down the ramps, the other across missile tubes, metal screams as it tries to support the weight of the warmachine. While a third does the absurd. It locks every missile inside their launchers, then sets the rack to maximum inclination. Scores of missiles fire; combining their exhausts to help the Technotank hop thirty feet. It¡¯s like watching a ballerina fart nukes and fly, if that ballerina was two semi trucks glued together with lab grown meat and called the Killdozer ¡®daddy¡¯. Autocannons unleash hatred, spewing thousands of rounds towards human conscripts. I know they¡¯re dying. These tanks are killing other earthlings.


    *Chink*


    [+1 Technician power armor]


    Work complete the nanofactory ejects its most recent project, a suit of powered armor, painted shitbrown with gray accents. The most beautiful turd I''ve ever seen. 10/10 would shit again. Plan Tychus is simple, infiltrate the enemy¡¯s armor and shoot em in the ass. Just like the Tychus did with the Odin. An infinitely more elegant plan than blowing myself sky high to kill one lousy Juggernaut.


    >Terran Thena: Need a second.


    >Executrix Alaea: Okay¡­ I¡¯m making five. Factory is too heavy to beam up right now.


    >Terran Thena: Can you make one half sized? There¡¯s a girl down here, child.


    >Executrix Alaea: A child? What- NO! Don¡¯t explain. Uhm. No, remote control won¡¯t let me alter designs. I¡¯ll have to get it on board.


    >Terran Thenao: YOU HAVE A SHIP?!?!?!


    >Executrix Alaea: It¡¯s not my ship. I¡¯ll be hiding the nanofactory in my uh... closet? Eh, more like under my bed.


    I don¡¯t have time to scream and swear at this ship shaped wrench, I¡¯m too busy jamming empty artillery shells and spare rations into the suit. At eight feet tall it¡¯s highly reminiscent of Terran Marine armor, big shoulderpads, dual reactors on the back in a sort of backpack, with the front being covered in sensors, lights, and a ton ¨Cliterally¨C of armor to counterbalance.


    ¡°Alright Kerrigan, hop in the armor, it¡¯ll keep you safe!¡± I say, lowering her into the suit through the neck hole.


    The Juggernaut outside rotates again, its missile tubes smashed flat after cosplaying a bridge. What a maneuver. Part of me respects the enormous balls on this warmachine, and the other part of me warps two Tulverian plasma rifles aboard Alaea''s ship. They¡¯re valuable, despite having no place in ¡®Tychus¡¯.


    Still, missile tubes are semi disposable. I know cause there are about a thousand of them lining the bunker walls. Hydraulics hiss, the Juggernaut lowering itself once more and turning to face us.


    I thank god the nanofactory¡¯s completion port isn¡¯t facing the trench, though logic corrects me. This was no act of fate. No idiot would give enemies a straight shot into the factory¡¯s internals. Kerrigan¡¯s hips and shoulders slide right in, head disappearing for a second before it pops back up. A sharkish grin across her face.


    ¡°I know armor! Red guy showed me how to uthe this. Before he lefth me behind.¡± She says, moving the arms and legs.


    Visor hisses shut, how her lil arms reach any controls is an elastagirl miracle, but she''s mobile and waddles behind the factory with me. We have no heavy guns, no capacity for killing tanks. Only a zergling. So I give the panic order that all zerglings receive when an overwhelming force is bearing down on them.


    Burrow.


    Lingling2 obeys, claws flaying steel grates in two swipes before scooping pawfuls of dirt out of the way. Treads whine, metal howls. The Juggernaut is entering the bunker, crushed tubes scraping the excavated walls. Another Juggernaut rocket jumps the trench, closer, smoke fogs the our vision, drowning us in black rocket ejaculate. My mask filters it out, air tasting canned like it always does, but the zerglings wheeze, giving away our position. I rest my head against Kerrigan¡¯s armor, there¡¯s nothing left for us to do other than stay quiet. In the total silence I hear a sound that makes my heart stop. Kerrigan¡¯s radio buzz, and the orders of an angry Juggernaut.


    ¡°Tech, replace my tubes.¡± Echoes through her helmet.


    A voice I¡¯ve heard often rises from Kerrigan¡¯s throat, but it¡¯s not hers.


    ¡°Piss off bolt brain! Got shot to hell! Look around you man, there is a tech hanging from the ceiling! Can''t you see my squad is dead? We shoulda stayed evacuated. Now my damn suit¡¯s buggered. That¡¯s why I¡¯m making a replacement.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me come down there you little cun¨C¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah big boy? What you gonna do?¡± Says Kerrigan, using MY voice. ¡°Gonna waste your last bullets on me. Then head to the next bunker without a single round? Blow hot air out of your ports. Ah, look. I don¡¯t even have bullets for you. Quit bitching. Get rolling.¡±


    Chinks and chunks warn that the Juggernaut is manually operating several weapons, contemplating if he should blow us away. He doesn''t have a clear shot to either of us, but Juggernauts are not known for being stable. The type of person who can accept being surgically implanted into a tank and forced to fight until death is not your average human.


    "Sorry. Can''t help without a new suit." Says Kerrigan.


    Servoes whine to the tune of a screaming man. A sensor ping rips through the bunker. One last wail before the juggernaut turns and drives away. That was closer than shaving balls with straight razors!


    A second suit appears in front of me, chest open. Inviting me into the warm microcosm of safety. I scramble up the suit, using its hands as footholds to get above. From here I can shimmy in, hips catching on the inner confines. It¡¯s not built for an unaugmented woman, let alone a fit college gal with double Ds. The Technomancy probably considers those unnecessary. Damn cyborgs must feed babies motor oil or something. I have to undo my mask and shake my hips like Shakira to get inside. All while wondering how much the Novan Techs remove to get in and out comfortably. But at this point I¡¯m too desensitized to even shudder.


    Besides, the sudden feeling of being encased in protection settles my heart. Not even the steaming fumes of this world can crush my spirits now.


    Crush my spirits¡­


    I¡¯m in armor.


    Before my visor shuts I look at Kerrigan, ¡°Get that Juggernaut back here, I¡¯ve got a plan.¡±


    Visor hisses shut. But for a second I can taste the steaming fumes of this world. Its rancid stench of cooked bodies. As if ten thousand men cut their throats and bled into one parking lot, then sat in the sun for a week it wouldn¡¯t smell half as vile.


    And I intend to cut one very large throat.


    [+1 Technician power armor]

 Chapter 13 Twenty Six Hours Down

    1 / 2 Biomass


    1 / 3 Mechanized


    -Nanofactory Operational-


    I punch the com channel open, broadcasting on an open Technocracy line. Then freeze, uncertain how to mimic the tone Kerrigan used earlier. I can¡¯t exactly copy my own voice and her diction was completely off, I''m never that much of a bitch.


    ¡°Hey, wait a second. Factory was already cooking, got my suit working. Come back and I¡¯ll get your tubes replaced, at least then you won¡¯t be down to your last fifty bullets.¡± Says Kerrigan.


    She¡¯s mimicking my voice perfectly. The single most freakish way to show off her bioweapon nature. I should distance myself from her, there is no way of guessing what parts of her once childish brain remain. Or if there is even a girl left inside her reprogrammed mind.


    ¡°Make up your mind woman! I ought to report your instability.¡± Says the Juggernaut pilot, returning so quickly the bunker¡¯s concrete entrance sheers off two tubes.


    Steel *plaps* into the mud behind him. Twenty foot long missile tubes sink into mud like discarded ribs. Now mangled beyond recognition. I signal to Kerrigan, gesturing for her to lay down behind the factory and be silent.


    ¡°Damnit man! Just look at this mess!¡± I snap, taking over communications.


    I stomp out of the shadows, picking up a spare missile tube in one hand. The tube is some ¡®economical¡¯ alloy of printed steel and only a few hundred pounds. Practically nothing in this Technocracy power armor. The Juggernaut rotates in place, one tread rotating forward while its agonist moves in reverse until his rear is facing the nanofactory. We have a clear view of his most sensitive bits, and I send two orders, one to the Liingling2, and one to Kerrigan.


    >Athena: Grab all the spare rations you can Kerrigan.


    >Kerrigan: Yay! Chocolate meats!


    My throat clenches. What is Kerrigan going to become? Will she be one of those insane bioweapons who kills in seconds then orders her allies to die?


    An alert appears on my internal HUD, six Tulverian plasma rifles have reached Alaea and are ready to be warped out, warped to me.


    Good work Lingling2! I think, activating the option and warping it behind the nanofactory, onto a crate that should be completely obscured from the Juggernaut while also sitting between tank and a rack of missiles. An ideal position for me to quietly augment the rifle into something truly potent.


    Finally, I¡¯m armed and dangerous. Heart thundering as I claim the first antitank weapon. So happy that I hop aboard the Juggernaut, kicking spent missile tubes off the tank like Santa¡¯s best worker elf.


    Sable Yurten has replaced missile racks before, and this suit of power armor is built for technicians. Holographic instructions guide my hand as I reload two hundred tubes, dropping some of the odd caliber autocannons in favor of more missiles. Easy as LEGOs, especially since this suit even has bundles of powered graspers hidden under armor plates, allowing me to deploy them and reach things my encased fingers otherwise could not.


    Tentacles have never been so handy. Like, they can really get in there deep.


    I recognize a few of the dropped autocannons as American made M2 machine guns, .50 BMG weapons with a little help from rollmarks like ¡®Property of United States Army¡± engraved on them. Jim must have sold gear to both sides. I¡¯m not surprised at the taxman¡¯s mercenary trend. Just exasperated. Is there anything he hasn''t touched? Another hologram counts remaining rounds for the autocannons, finding no reserves on the planet and labeling them as scrap metal. A smile crosses my face as I crush the guns on accident, taking pleasure in deformed steel. A few less guns for the Technocracy.


    At this point, I¡¯m just waiting for another betrayal. Maybe I¡¯ll win ¡®Backstabbed Bingo¡¯.


    Thirty minutes pass as I move roughly twenty thousand pounds of missile tubes and missiles. Oh, and we can¡¯t forget my assistant¡¯s contributions. Lingling2 managed to move a dozen bricks of explosive, stashing them on or in the Juggernaut¡¯s access panels with some help from your friendly neighborhood warpgate. One might ask how a zergling -with claws and no hands- opens a two inch access panel, a good question. Turns out these tentacles are great at unscrewing things while my hands are busy. There is even a cluster of tentacles under my calf armor complete with an adjustable wrench, perfect for opening access panels.


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    ¡°Hey, sorry about being a cunt. It¡¯s just that my squad ditched me then artillery nearly cut me in half just before you arrived. Worst of all, I can''t even call them assholes, something killed em first. Suit¡¯s dickered right to hell and I don¡¯t have the tools I need. Ah, guess my chips must have been damaged from the shockwaves. I¡¯ll run diagnostics and have them recalibrated when I link up at base.¡± I radio.


    ¡°Get that checked out before the next reload.¡± Responds the Juggernaut, absolutely zero emotion sullying his voice.


    I can¡¯t tell if he is pissed, furious, or just tired, in fact I have absolutely no idea what is running through that half robotic brain of his. My only hope is he bought Tychus, and hasn¡¯t picked up on the deception. Job complete I seal the last access panel praying to yellow bioweapons that steel plates won¡¯t block the signal for spontaneous disassembly.


    Then he is gone, exiting the bunker and driving up the ramp. I¡¯ll need to time this perfectly, in case Kerrigan is still loyal to the Technocracy. She can¡¯t know what I¡¯ve done. Hard to imagine her cute purple eyes would stab me in the back, but it¡¯s even more difficult to imagine a world where a Technomancer builds a bioweapon without failsafes. One wrong word and her head might pop.


    Simultaneous with my reloading work I''ve been augmenting the plasma rifle, small adjustments over repeated casts, a slightly more efficient magazine and action, better magnetic confinement, coils that offer slightly less resistance. Tame upgrades that cap at three for each individual part. Painfuly tame even, except for the small notification.


    [Augur level 2]


    Appears in my mind. Alongside a small tooltip.


    ''You may now direct the upgrade path from the available options.''


    A bit cryptic, but I''ve got too much on my plate already with the tank reload, warping half the bunker''s supplies to my ally and trying not to get caught. The warp HUD makes this possible. Still, it¡¯s like driving two cars at once. The throttle is linked to vehicles but each has its own steering wheel and gear shifter. My saving grace is how the buttons seem to press themselves if I focus on them. So fluid I have to wonder if our hive mind invented telekinesis. Allowing simultaneous usage of Singularity, Technocracy, and warp HUDs. Time rumbles through the world pounding artillery shells and the occasional dropship to smithereens. Strategic information I uncover by tapping into the Juggernaut¡¯s prediction subroutines and a connection that will be lost when I press the detonator.


    I look at the detonator, ready to pull the trigger then pause. Not yet, I think, locking its safety latch over the switch. Too many people have touched it and the bombs, I have no way of knowing what exactly will explode or if we got every brick of C4 in the bunker. Lingling2 drops a brick near my feet, looking up at me like a puppy who just delivered slippers. Okay, we definitely missed a few bricks.


    ¡°No way am I blowing my ass off early. We¡¯ll leave first then detonate.¡±


    Alerts appear on two helmets, torrents of information rattle around my face. Blinding me with a hundred pinpricks of information that erode my patience. I can feel pressure building behind my eyes, a migraine in the making.


    Okay, slow down. Work the problem. Solve one step then move to the next. Look, I¡¯m halfway there. We¡¯re in stolen armor, with a rolling sabotage as a distraction.


    But I¡¯m only one person¡­ My hand trembles, recalling the pain of being shot then healed. Frontlines are where people die, this cannot be where I fight. In the past hour artillery has cut me in half, nearly tore off my arm, and should have blown me sky high. I¡¯ve been stupid. Sloppy. Bumbling around a toxic world without a clue.


    >Terran Thena: Hey Hygieia, I have hardware but no soldiers. Help a poor girl out?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: send biomass


    Of course I¡¯ve forgotten the core part of our agreement. I feel stupider than when ¡®NOT ENOUGH MINERALS, MINE MORE MINERALS¡¯ appears on screen and I keep mashing the build button anyways. It''s a simple matter for me to warp the dead technicians to Hygieia. Simple as dragging the icons and dropping them into the recycling bin. Or collecting your daily free roll in a gatcha.


    >Executrix Alaea: Hey Hygene, I¡¯ll give you the same HUD. I¡¯ve got my own door problems.


    >Terran Thena: Door problems? Damn problems?


    >Executrix Alaea: NO.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: is it clever if i thought of it too? :P


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I see your spare suits.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: will manufacture wetware


    >Matriarch Hygieia: estimated time to completion 1 hour


    >Matriarch Hygieia: product will be defective


    >Matriarch Hygieia: entering combat


    >Matriarch Hygieia: no time for better


    ¡°What the hell does defective mean?¡± I shout, warping out a stack of singularity helmets and rations.


    Kerrigan is still eating chocolate bricks, blissfully blind.


    Well, that¡¯s something.


    At least I can make one girl happy.

 Chapter 14 I am Executrix Alaea

    Unlike Athena or Hygieia I was cursed to never lose consciousness. Every second of Jim¡¯s briefing, every millimeter of intergalactic space we covered, I was aware of. He¡¯d sold our consciousness three times, a strange possibility that involved quantumly disentangling our neurons from their electrical impulses. A crude but proven Azhurai technique.


    I frown at that thought. Unsure how I know the origin, and concerned about the proven way of unscrambling chimeras.


    We are one such being, in truth, all humans with ESP are classified as chimeras and I admit to myself I¡¯m not sure what the term means. What about others like me? The empaths and telekinetics. Will Jim be splitting all of them as well? I reach for my waistband, where the FNX rests.


    But my hands are pinned in place.


    I blink.


    No longer am I in body. Crystals surround me, large floating things that begin to resonate as I behold them. Like thought activated wind-chimes tingling for their master.


    But¡­ I¡¯m a college kid. No one calls me master-


    I am not Athena Finley.


    Not anymore.


    We are one of the nameless caste. I sense the paradox of naming a race nameless. It¡¯s illogical, like Odysseus calling himself no one and just like him, I am not alone in this cave. That smallest of thoughts twists something within my mind, we are not -nameless-, the name of the race was erased from my mind. Actively removed by psionic forces beyond comprehension.


    A galactic prohibition on a race''s name? I shudder. How great of a mind would it take to reach into every organism across the galaxy and prohibit a name from being uttered? That makes the Zerg Overmind look like a crayon eating kindergardner.


    ¡°Good, you are awake.¡± Says a voice.


    ¡°WHO AR-¡± I begin, stopping myself as the words thunder through the world.


    Crystals shudder, violently counter-resonating to tame my scream. The figure slumps stepping into view. As a -nameless- he is millions of years old. Older than humanity itself, and possibly older than the dust that formed Earth. None of that keeps me from scowling, still struggling to grasp why I can¡¯t think of our race¡¯s name. Cognitively I know the word, but there is a sort of wall between my conscious brain and that word.


    ¡°I see. My daughter is well and truly dead then.¡± Says the figure.


    Hands go to his face, which is when I see exactly what a nameless is. More plant than animal, with no mouth or nose and precious few pieces of armor. Or fingers. We only have three on each hand. One central finger that is longer and thicker than the other and inline with our forearms, with two off axis digits, almost like two oppositional opposed thumbs. One where you would expect it and another where a pinky ought to be. Claws tip each digit, evolved for savaging interlopers. Why a plant evolved claws is a question I¡¯ll never be able to answer, but we¡¯ve got them. Unlike mouths, ears, or noses. Looking at the -nameless- face I¡¯m left to wonder how we breath or drink. Which is when I notice the eyes. Dozens of them.


    A memory from this body educates me in the same way muscle memory educates our movements. You generally don¡¯t remember which muscles you have to flex to drop a turd, but once you pinch off the first loaf your body remembers the correct order forever. Six clusters of eyes and eyestalks open across my ¡®head¡¯, opening to observe the world around me. I¡¯m pinned in a magnetic prison, held down by an energy field invisible to the human visible spectrum, but clear as daylight to my ultraviolet receptors. Infrared eyes observe the heat differentials in the room, stretching on their eyestalks to scan the room in a 360 degree view. The figure before me isn¡¯t -nameless- he is Exec Kaalra, Arbiter of the Orion-spur. AKA the spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy that Earth exists within.


    If he decided the moniker of ¡®God¡¯ with a capital G was more fitting, then it would be within his power to enforce the change. I swallow. Blinking instead.


    Right, I have no mouth¡­


    So, like a genius I try to calm myself with a breath, and blink my subdermal eyes instead. If you¡¯ve ever wondered how a pit viper blinks its pits, wonder no more! Cause it felt like flapping earlobes over my ear holes. Beyond awkward.


    Kaalra stands, meeting my eyes with four of his own. They¡¯re almond shaped, set within a round ¡®head¡¯ with eyebrow ridges and ocular prominences. Humanoid in appearance though I know he has molded his face to seem more humanoid than alien. As any skilled ambassador would.


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    Memories scratch at the wall within my id. Pounding against stone in warning. Who I am, what body I¡¯m in, all is lost in a cacophony of Kaalra¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Another failure..." Elbows move in a gesture that might be a shrug. Dejected, hopeless, yet unsurprised by this outcome. "Alas, you are not my daughter.¡±


    He turns to leave, subdermal eyes opening along the back of his head. They do not perceive clearly, but I¡¯m not exactly going anywhere.


    ¡°SO-¡± I try to speak, shouting.


    Cmon, think, this is just like training. Empty your mind. Jim said we have ESP potential. Figure it out! THINK! A wiggling memory pierces the wall worming through it to slap me with technical info about my own ¡®voice¡¯. Experience tempers my eagerness and for the first time since walking in on Bazzhole and Whorely, I relax. Who would have guessed alien abductions were preferable to being cheated on.


    ¡°So, that¡¯s it? You¡¯re just going to leave me in stasis.¡± I whisper.


    My voice isn¡¯t audible in the human sense. If one were a fly on the wall they would not perceive any motion between the two figures. Not until the sounds vibrated directly into their brain on psionic waves.


    Kaalra freezes in the doorway. Claws lingering a millimeter away from the activation crystals. Eyes open across his skull -I know it¡¯s more of a flower¡¯s bulb than any calcium based lattice, but I understand the intent.


    ¡°You are an ape. Think very carefully as to your next words.¡± Whispers Kaalra, in a tone I know has crushed stars.


    ¡°Thinking is overrated. I¡¯m not your daughter, but you¡¯ve adopted me so we¡¯re stuck with each other. Or have you evolved your way out of filial responsibility?¡±


    The quip was a mistake. One that shows me exactly why people avoid the -nameless-. Normally, you don¡¯t think about little things like the atomic weight of oxygen, not until every molecule ceases to move, desublimating from gas directly into solid oxygen. Pressure in the room drops to zero. A lethal pressure for humans, as zero is total vacuum. Sea Level on earth is roughly 15 psi, while the pinnacle of Mount Everest tickles 5 psi and is well known for suffocating climbers.


    Except I¡¯m not human. Nor do I breath via lungs. A severe drop in pressure swells my eyes, improving vision rather than boiling my blood. Other than that, no changes accompany the loss and holding my breath is possible for far longer than any human could conceive. Desublimating gaseous oxygen into solid oxygen is impressive and should stun my monkey brain into shutting the hell up and not provoking Kaalra any further. But no one has ever accused me of being the sharpest tool. I prepare to speak and realize every molecule of my body is locked down. Held more tightly than Earth in Atlas¡¯ sweaty palms.


    ¡°You dare-¡± Whispers Kaalra, each syllable jackhammering our crystalized space. ¡°You dare speak with her voice. One more word and I will extract your stupidity so it cannot mar her existence further.¡±


    If I were still human, his threat alone would have killed me. Broken every bone in my body and literally crushed the piss and shit out of me. Although which hole I excreted from would be a mystery because my body would be crushed into dimensions smaller than a needle¡¯s point.


    But this ship is built of sterner materials. Walls creak, the floor and ceiling recoil slightly bowing under the psychic pressure.


    A thousand thoughts and memories run through my mind, the summation of my life, abduction from earth, college, the betrayal of every person I''ve ever cared about, and my impending death on Syrak-9. Part of me is relieved, dying in a war has to hurt, at least Kaalra will make it snappy and quick-


    -Deep within my id, five voices cry out as one.


    No.


    I can¡¯t move, can¡¯t breath, can¡¯t speak. My intrinsic human abilities are gone. So I turn to the one ability that isn¡¯t human. My name is Alaea. She wished to die and abandoned this body willingly, though her memories remain, as do her meditations. Together our minds settle into one.


    We are Alaea.


    I am Alaea.


    Envisioning a feather made of pure oxygen bricks I dust the air between us. An electrical storm of ice and lightning erupts between us, vaporizing oxygen back into gas. Fire rolls across the room, consuming oxygen. Kaalra is engulfed in flames, as is my stasis tube. Waves of heat roll over us both. He extends a finger, pulling fire, smoke, heat, and frozen oxygen, I strain against his will, trying to avoid burning to death.


    Solid steel, or crystals stronger than steel, hold me in place. Another psionic duster shatters the restraints and I¡¯m free. Fire licks my skin, pleasantly warming my hide.


    I¡¯m not human.


    The thought settles into my mind.


    Humans do not shower in flames.


    Is no part of me Athena Finley?


    Kaalra looks at me, disgust in his eyes but there is something else there. Relief maybe? Psychic tendrils set the room to order, banishing flames and trapped oxygen in a second. The room looks perfect, as if we hadn¡¯t just walked through a pure oxygen fire seconds before. Soot covers my skin while Kaalra is spotless. He must possess a personal shield generator or psychically keep the soot from landing.


    My claws rub together, brushing away loose soot to find my skin unblemished. No evidence that I just survived an inferno without so much as a sunburn.


    ¡°Such weak intelligence. Bah, my daughter has fused stars. You are nothing. Not even the traitors who altered your world will take such a failure in. Damn shame. Oh Alaea, wish that you accept our duty, not die vainly in the prayer of vainglory.¡± Said Kaalra.


    His speech was odd, as if translated by a middle school student. Incomplete and jilting.


    A second psionic impulse bursts from him, ordering the ship into the gate above Syrak-9. Engines ignite with the ship somehow duplicating itself; one physical manifestation will remain above Syrak-9 and the other transits the orbital gateway appearing above a planet I recognize as Earth. I cannot physically see beyond this stasis room, but I know the ship is moving and our position relative to the local stars.


    ¡°None of this is remotely possible-¡± I begin.


    Propelled to the cusp of lightspeed then far beyond as we transition the gate. Deep within my id a star chart updates, a primordial sense that tells me we have portalled back to Earth.


    I¡¯m home.


    As an alien daughter aboard a hostile warship.


    ¡°Please, leave Earth alone.¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Make me.¡± Answers Exec Kaalra, ¡°If you think an ape like you is capable of leaving stasis.¡± Says Kaalra, sealing the door between us.

 Chapter 16 Proxy Racks #1 is Secured

    <div>


    Lingling2 has been busy gathering Tulverian weapons and now sits inside a nest dug into the trench wall. Happily munching iguanas atop a pile of sweet alien energy weapons. Instead of magazines with projectiles the plasma rifles -I have no idea what their Tulverian manufacturer or model numbers might be, maybe Iguana Plasma Industries model Clickity Clack 102- use square bricks with rounded edges, similar to a human magazine yet entirely sealed with metal sliders protecting silver hued prods. Contact points for integrated electronics like a round counter in the scope. Or they could be batteries, without a live iguana to translate I can¡¯t even begin to guess.


    ¡°Feck, I can¡¯t possibly take another helmet¡­ Let alone an alien one.¡±


    >Terran Thena: Hey, I¡¯ve got information overload. Can you do something to link up my helmets?


    >Executrix Alaea: Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just run a military intelligence operation by myself. Easy.


    >Terran Thena: So¡­ That¡¯s a yes? It¡¯s not like you have anything better to do.


    >Executrix Alaea: Is it clever if all three of us think of it at the same time? AND STOP GETTING SHOT! WE CAN FEEL THAT!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: ditto. ty for the hud. Perfect for creating a biopool.


    >Terran Thena: Eat a bag of dicks. I¡¯m NOT TRYING to get shot! I¡¯ll trade places with either of you.


    >Executrix Alaea: Point taken. Alright here is the deal. I can link the helmets all to your warp HUD, but this is cludge AF. Makes you wish for a science vessel like the Amerigo, fully automated with enough sensors to comsat a system. Eh, the Tulvarian helmet won¡¯t link up. Not that it matters. Only a hundred odd iguanas are left. Singularity offensive killed all their outposts. Some kind of tunneling vehicle and a kickass yellow bioweapon. Fucking terrifying shit. I still can¡¯t figure out how she pulled the life out of those lizards or healed you. It¡¯s like all organs suddenly went into complete shutdown. As if all ATP was drained from their cells in a second. Something like that might actually be able to kill me. But then she healed you and did the inverse. I can¡¯t track where the repaired flesh came from or how she added blood. That weapon could literally cure every ailment on earth.


    ¡®Might be able to kill me.¡¯ repeats in my mind. Strange way of thinking about a tragedy but I¡¯m not sure how to respond to myself. Why would Alaea want to die? She don¡¯t sound suicidal, but I know nothing about the alien they¡¯ve become. Maybe it¡¯s some kind of Zerg queen who gives birth every minute. Ick.


    >Terran Thena: I can¡¯t manage all these com channels. If she, hell, let¡¯s give the yellow bioweapon a name. She heals, kills, and invigorates, so Trinity? If Trinity didn¡¯t finish off the iguanas I assume they¡¯ve got a fortress the drill tank can¡¯t reach?


    >Executrix Alaea: Yeah, their main landing pad and a forward outpost or two near the mountains. Without their mechs they can¡¯t take ground from the Technocracy and they were never going to take territory from the Azhurai so, by process of elimination, -pun intended- that leaves their fort. It¡¯s shielded above and below ground with some seriously impressive reactors. But¡­ I think the -nameless- will consider them defeated and cycle another contender into the wargames. Can I take the factory yet?


    >Terran Thena: Give me a few. Tychus worked. Jug has a very angry Greek up his trojan.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: haha


    The nanofactory brings my attention forward. I mute both human helmets so I can focus everything into the warp HUD. Unfortunately it still uses the power armor¡¯s internal speakers for announcements. Brown Technocracy armor clunks against a crate, occupied by my most mysterious ally.


    ¡°Hey Kerrigan, you alright?¡±


    ¡°Pfina¡¯s sneaky!¡± Says Kerrigan, somehow knowing to use the tight beam array instead of the radio.


    A critically important distinction. Tight beam is sort of like morse code beamed through a laser at another suit. Our onboard sensors can pick it up and translate it into sound easily enough, and most importantly, it¡¯s impossible to pick up unless someone targets you directly while within line of sight. Unlike radio which broadcasts in every direction and shouts ¡°Hey, come drop a bomb on me¡± around every corner on the planet.


    ¡°Oh, thanks. Uhm, how did you learn to operate that suit?¡±


    ¡°Red.¡± She says, her tone losing all mirth. Becoming the programmed robot I fear she is. ¡°He took me away and taught me loth of thingths. Thaid I couldn¡¯t see mom and dad until I wearned evewything and chased the sthinky people away.¡±


    I swallow, deciding to press my luck. ¡°Who are the stinky people?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. Red never told me.¡±


    ¡°Is Red your friend?¡± I pry, needing to know how much of a hold this ''Red'' has over Kerrigan.


    ¡°Pfina my only fwiend! Red never gave me hith name. He didn¡¯t give me tasty meaths or a name!¡±


    A sigh of relief escapes through clenched teeth.


    ¡°Thanks Kerrigan, you look pretty great in that armor. Let''s go. We need to find somewhere safe from those Juggernauts. If we head back to Singularity lines we can team up with them.¡±


    ¡°Otay.¡± She says.


    The armor moves like a second skin, grasping the thirty pound flechette pistol with one hand. Suit tentacles emerge from between armored plates, forming a sling for the weapon. Even in the heat of combat it won¡¯t be possible for me to lose it.


    >Terran Thena: Moving out. Factory is all yours.


    >Executrix Alaea: SWEET! Beaming up the nanofactory now. Oh, and the spare suits til Hygieia is ready. They¡¯ll fit in my closet. I see you¡¯re leaving, want me to blow that bunker after you reach a safe distance?


    >Terran Thena: Would you be a dear? ;)


    >Terran Thena: Actually, wait until an artillery barrage starts. So no one knows it was me.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    >Executrix Alaea: Roger roger.


    [+3 Technician powered armor][intact]


    [+1 Engineer powered armor][dead occupant]


    [+3 Technician powered armor][damaged][dead occupant]


    >Matriarch Hygieia: wait 30 minutes and i can put bodies in those suits


    >Matriarch Hygieia: ty for biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: wish i could store it on planet


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cant bank it up til i land


    ¡°Kerrigan, we need to run.¡± I order, giving both lings the command.


    Lingling2 erupts from his iguana nest while Ling1 rips past me. They take to the trenches like pigs in shit, sprinting through mud and really stretching out their legs. My Technician suit blares, tracking them with the option for me to deploy missile countermeasures.


    Cheetahs would be slower. Yet for all their impressive speed and violence Juggernauts are tougher than steel and thicker than buildings. The truth is simple albeit trite. Lings won¡¯t cut it. Not the Juggernauts we¡¯re facing today nor the Azhurai Conglomerate of tomorrow. I really should have made a missile launcher or something with the factory. Or have Hygieia cook up an Ultralisk.


    Actually, ultras suck. You just can¡¯t face tank a nuke in real life. What did the Zerg use for long range artillery? Broodlords and guardians, but fighters on Syrak just get shot down. Ground artillery was always worse, crap, what did I even use for ground- OH, lurkers or ravagers.


    >Terran Thena: I need to kill a few Juggernauts, make me a few siege tanks or Yamato cannons?


    >Executrix Alaea: Ha! I wish. Can only do steel and plastics without more resources. Reactors are a no go. No cloaking devices either. A siege tank would take me four weeks to make with this factory. IF I had the resources.


    >Terran Thena: Cmon, I need something better than these pulse rifles! It would keep me from getting shot¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: -_-


    >Terran Thena: Anything? A marauder from wish.com? There are crates of nanofactory supplies down here; no one will know if you teleport them out and blow the bunker. .


    >Executrix Alaea: Sure thing, right after I invent time travel and solve galactic scarcity.


    >Executrix Alaea: Temporal anti-tampering locks. Can¡¯t touch them or the -nameless- will know I¡¯m helping you. So will the Technocracy who will snitch via a complaint. At best I¡¯ll lose the teleporter...


    >Executrix Alaea: Look. With what I have on hand we can make hand grenades.


    >Terran Thena: How about some ravagers? Always kicked ass with those guys, especially Abathur¡¯s coop variant with the extra corrosive bile. But any hard hitting artillery will work.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: collective isnt zerg


    >Matriarch Hygieia: with a few months i can recreate the zerg roster but right now im limited


    >Matriarch Hygieia: they have a few artillery lifeforms take your pick 800 biomass or 500 biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: ooooorrrr 16000 biomass for a one shot guarantee


    >Terran Thena: Feck.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: underground fungal farms and the biomass you send adds up


    >Matriarch Hygieia: give me time and a place to work, only then can i move the world


    >Terran Thena: ¡­ Alright Archimedes.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: landing on a planet soon will have my own biopool


    I feel like my girlfriend just told me her orthodox parents won¡¯t be home for the weekend. Too bad it''s Tuesday. Artillery shells begin to land, chasing the Juggernaut I just rearmed. He¡¯s chosen to go above the trenches and run full throttle for a distant bunker. Brave.


    We run, sticking to the trench for safety. Kerrigan waddling as zerglings rush ahead. Despite the distant thunder I¡¯m at peace, savoring every second of my incoming victory. Missile exhaust clogs the trenches, black tendrils swirling at our passing like grasping ghosts. Jogging through the smoke my mind wanders, going to the only place that strategic decisions were a common occurrence.


    Starcraft, in those terms our squad is two marines and two lings, but each Juggernaut is most analogous to a Dominion Thor. No chance.


    If I had one or two more tools it would be workable. A cloaking module and I could be a ghost, walk up to the Juggernaut and shoot him in the spine or drop demo charges into access ports. Easy sabotage. But I can¡¯t. We can barely burrow. The doglings can dig, but not enough for two suits of power armor to follow them. Wind sucks through my teeth. We are totally boned. A Thor wins that match up a hundred out of a hundred times. Always ending with squished Thena and Kerrigan creme brulee. Ah, it feels impossible, but that only excites me. There has to be a solution.


    Trench walls loom in front of me, a T junction, left to Singularity forces, right to the Technomancy. I wait for Lingling2 to arrive from the right, already facing the safety of Earthling lines. Left we go-


    -What will they do to Kerrigan? I think.


    The answer is uncertain running the gambit between alteration into a greater bioweapon and summary execution. Salvation halts my step. We can¡¯t go left. Not as we are. But going right means fighting a dozen Juggernauts. If we¡¯re able to sneak up behind the juggernauts maybe we can hit them while they¡¯re busy tearing through Earth conscripts¡­ No, they can just reverse and crush us. Out of flash trained habit I activate the armor¡¯s full systems, integrating it with the Technomancy¡¯s friend or foe detection system. I appear on the HUD¡¯s radar system, tagged as a technician. Specifically a logistical technician trained in reloading Juggernauts. Which is when a pleasant surprise fills the HUD, I have slug and missile counts for the ten nearest Juggernauts.


    Ten of the supertanks are within twenty minutes of me. That''s a relief, I thought there were twelve!


    Holy shitballs Batman! Four are pushing into Singularity lines, facing no real resistance. Earth would employ fighter jets or tanks with depleted uranium rounds to solve the question they ask, neither of which the Singularity will use on this world.


    Logistical technician... Moving things from home to the battlefield. Like an SCV. But this isn¡¯t Starcraft. The objective isn¡¯t to kill the enemy buildings, it¡¯s to destroy the enemy¡ª*


    Another snap decision sends me back to the crossroad, sprinting towards the Technomancy¡¯s next bunker. Lingling2 skids to a stop, caterwheeling legs as I hop ten feet over him.


    ¡°Oh holy shit! Power armor is AWESOME!¡± I gasp, landing without breaking stride.


    We have to win or Earth dies. Mom dies. Piece of shit dad dies before I can cut off his balls. I need to win. Ling1 and Lingling2 blow past me, sprinting with such force that mud flies out of the trench. Thrown forty feet into the air by alien claws digging up traction. They aren¡¯t shoehorned into guard duty anymore. A new purpose fills their minds, one they have been waiting their entire lives to hear.


    *¡ªDestroying buildings in Starcraft is an abstraction. The assumption is that without supplies your army will run out of bullets or starve then be hunted down and destroyed in the most boring way possible, no reason to play out a forgone conclusion. As a thought example, no amount of starving broodlords can make a single broodlings, nor can they beat a landed viking who happens to have unlimited fuel and missiles.


    ¡°Pfina, wrong way.¡± Says Kerrigan.


    ¡°Change of plans, we¡¯re going to the next Technocracy bunker.¡±


    [Nanofactory Integration complete] appears in the center of my vision, so surprising I nearly faceplant. But shit has been popping up in that HUD all day, what with all the chats from aliens and system notifications. This one ¨Clike all others¨C fades in a few seconds.


    [Insufficient minerals for continued production]


    [Acquire more minerals]


    >Terran Thena: Alaea¡­ You¡¯re a cunt for adding that to our warp HUDs.


    >Executrix Alaea: LOL


    >Terran Thena: SC2 win condition vs Jugs. Our first build order.


    A moment passes. Sixty seconds before I see her reply.


    >Executrix Alaea: Makes sense, Death from Above?


    >Terran Thena: yes


    >Executrix Alaea: Need volatile compounds or organic gases


    >Matriarch Hygieia: organic gases


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hehehehehe


    >Matriarch Hygieia: we can siphon those EZ


    >Matriarch Hygieia: take what you need


    Our chats work at the speed of thought. There is no need for us to aim our eyes at keyboards nor press individual keys, turning text into instantaneous communication of thoughts.


    Looks like I¡¯m not the only one running logistics. A smile creeps across my face. I know how to win. Or at least, tip the scales enough to flip the entire Technocracy. Distant rumbling heralds a return to form from my Singularity kin. Louder than I¡¯ve heard before. As if every gun on Earth decided to fire at once.

 Chapter 17 Left Behind?

    No sooner than the text fades, a truly spectacular shockwave flows through the world. Sending Kerrigan and I careening into the trench wall. Armor bounces off embedded logs, leaving a pauldron shaped dent in the walls. I spare a glance back at Kerrigan, who has somehow remained on her feet. Despite the clumsy waddle she is piloting that armor like a champ.


    ¡°Great job Kerrigan. Keep moving.¡± I beam back to her.


    ¡°Are you gonna leath me behind?¡± She asks.


    My heart breaks at her words. There is no inflexion in her voice, it is not a question. All curiosity is gone. Tossed into the nearest incinerator along with hope. Kerrigan¡¯s merely confirming a forgone conclusion. I plant both feet, skidding to a stop.


    ¡°What? No!--¡±


    I want to scream and shout at her, now is not the time for emotional breakdowns! We need to get out of the artillery barrage. But she has the mind of a child so I temper my voice, trying to keep my racing heart out of my throat. We have seconds left before the artillery hits. No, I can spare a minute for Kerrigan. The artillery is aimed at the Juggernaut, not us, nor has my suit detected any projectiles aimed directly on our heads. We have a moment.


    ¡°Leave my friend alone? No way. If I did that, who will keep all our chocolates safe? I need you Kerrigan. Queen of Confectionary Delights.¡± I say. Hearing a laugh.


    The joy in her voice makes my spine tighten. True happiness dances across our tight beams, something I haven¡¯t felt in a week. Not since being abducted. Or even before. Bazzhole could make me laugh, but laughter from him never truly made me happy. Neither did any of Whorely¡¯s kind words. They were less my friends than an alien bioweapon.


    ¡°Lets catch up to the lings¨C¡±


    Shells rain like consuming locusts. Explosions tear into everything. Hundreds of pops create successive earthquakes. My helmet¡¯s HELP system slams shut, gel packs inflate to maximum. Kerrigan¡¯s does the same, but her armor doesn¡¯t fit her. The gel packs won¡¯t cushion a thing. We¡¯re thrown, bounced, tossed, and cartwheeled through the air as mud, metal, wood, and dirt become liquids. Perpetually disturbed by rolling thunder and shockwaves. Suits dent under the barrage. I feel every one of my bones bend, as if someone hit it with a baseball bat.


    Pain soaks my body.


    And I smile.


    Not out of masochistic joy, but because this armor is the shit; and I¡¯m not getting hit.


    One single direct strike would kill me. The fact I¡¯m still alive means I¡¯m doing alright, unlike the intended targets. None of these impacts are aimed at me. None are even headed into the trench. Surprising given the sheer volume. Around the battlefield my HUD changes color for each damaged Juggernaut, and I cackle as they die. Missile racks explode in secondary booms. While one green icon jumps immediately to red, skipping yellow and orange damage indicators. Before it died the ammo counter red 200 missiles, and zeroes for autocannons.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    >Executrix Alaea: Oh, did you mean to blow that?


    I reach for the detonator and find it crushed. Protective shielding broken and the switch all the way to the hot side.


    Ooops¡­


    >Terran Thena: Shit. No. Did you get everything you can from the bunker?


    >Executrix Alaea: ugh. Close enough. But I¡¯m holding your biomass. Which REEKS. Really guys, I can¡¯t open the door! Ew, I think this body breathes through it''s skin. Seriously! Can we please find a bunker and turn it into a supply depot or something. Just leave a ling there and we can warp things in and out.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cry me a river


    >Matriarch Hygieia: im stuck in the kiddy pool so gl hf


    >Matriarch Hygieia: supply ling?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: supple ling?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: SUPREMEME-LING


    >Terran Thena: haha, idiot. Lol.


    A transmission escapes my explosive accident crossing the battlefield as the Juggernaut¡¯s burning husk barrel rolls into the trenches.


    ¡°No direct hits. Internal explosions. Sabotage¨C¡±


    Within a millisecond, faster than I can process the transmission, the planetary Technocracy Overmind calculates likely causes and issues orders through dozens of logic cores.


    ¡°UNIDENTIFIED ENGINEER! REPORT TO BUNKER 0002 IMMEDIATELY¡± Echoes through my armor¡¯s speakers, and I''m tremendously grateful for my Singularity helmet.


    I might have lost some hearing to the artillery shell, but this screeching would have popped both drums like a terrible mixtape not even your deaf grandma would love. My feet move, dragging themselves toward Kerrigan, she¡¯s already moving forward in that awkward waddle.


    ¡°NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED.¡± Booms through my speakers, and four Juggernauts change their trajectories.


    They know I¡¯m an infiltrator. Or at least suspect me. A suspicion that will take more effort to confirm than a dozen engineers are worth, and I¡¯m only wearing the guise of a lowly technician. Simple answer is to blow me away, the sort of utilitarian approach I expect from cyborgs. One Juggernaut is coming straight for me, with a second on a fly-by route able to back it up. While the other two adjust to cover holes in their new formation, still heading for Singularity lines. No fire comes from our frontline trenches. Strange, maybe we gave all we had in the barrage?


    ¡°Two Jugs just for little ole me? Jesus. Get your priorities straight! Talk about an F2 A move zombie.¡±


    It¡¯s no secret that artillery barrages precede waves of massed conscripts. Which should be in position to sweep through Tulverian territory after Trinity¡¯s infiltration, so sending two tanks for one infiltrating tech is overkill. Unless they think I am Trinity... I swallow, suddenly wondering if two isn''t enough for such a monster. Except there are Juggernauts heading my way already, a Technocracy counter offense that I am running headlong into.


    Juggernauts on an intercept course. Destination me. Or really, where I¡¯ll be in five minutes. Napkin fueled HUD math tells of a hundred bunker busting missiles and ten thousand slugs bearing down on me. Okay, maybe that would be enough for a bioweapon kill. Chin taps the armor, disconnecting all external communications except for tight beams.


    ¡°Kerrigan, tanks are coming, run. We might have to split up. Don¡¯t let the Juggernauts find you. They¡¯ll put you back in the cage, or kill- uuhhm. Make you go to sleep and never wake up.¡±


    ¡°Otay.¡±


    The answer isn¡¯t good enough for me. I sweep her into my arms and sprint down the trench, racing with all the speed I can muster. Power armor does the heavy lifting, but I need more speed. My wishes are granted, servos whining as limiters exceed safety thresholds, each step is a twenty foot powered leap. Still too slow.


    I push harder, testing my once severed legs. They seem to lengthen, pumping with more vigor and agility than ever before.


    >Terran Thena: Hygieia¡­ what did you use to make my legs?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: what I had


    >Matriarch Hygieia: the two lings I sent are the newest variant


    >Matriarch Hygieia: four legs instead of six

 Chapter 18 Who’s the bioweapon now?!

    Great, I¡¯m part zergling now. I glance at my two half brothers, or maybe parents? I don¡¯t know, it¡¯s weird either way and looking at it harder is only gonna make things worse. At least I¡¯m still thinking like a human and not licking buttholes like a dog.


    My two zergling hounds rocket down muddy trenches, webbed feet keeping them afloat. Were this the dry lands of their progenitor¡¯s homeworld they could outrun the wind itself. Yet they knew nothing of their homeworld, nor of anything other than instinct and obeyance. Today those purposes were united.


    Hunt.


    Kill.


    ¡ª


    Ordered by their Matriarch, through her strangest overseer a tiny creature, taller than they though similarly weighted and wrapped in the stench of enemies. Ah, that makes sense, Matriarch sent us on a mission with an infiltrator. Something to wear the enemies skin, seeing the unseeable.


    The hunter¡¯s thoughts were simple. Intentionally so. For obedience was more valuable than cunning. Unlike their physiology which worked like the augmented genome it was. Furious muscles begin to heat the zergling bodies, blood pumping fire into spines warming and pressurizing the fluid beneath their dorsal crests. In turn pushing bony protrusions out skin sheathes. Another adaptation to vent heat. Hot as they are they pass invisible to Technomancy scanners who are looking for larger targets, vehicles or squads, Laser fire, not two dogs. Two purely organic creatures pass beneath notice, no radar or scanner detects their passage through the trench bottom until they are twenty feet in front of bunker 0002.


    Four men in red power armor stand inside the entrance facing each other instead of their watch. A mistake. The last one any of them will ever make. Lingling2 takes the lead running between the armored man¡¯s legs, ramming two dorsal spines through the gaps in his groin armor. Like spring loaded needles they pop, perforating through the man then acting as a siphon for blood to leak out of.


    By the cooling sensation of warm blood dripping down his spine Lingling2 knows multiple arteries are hit, Something pops, wetting the spines with blood or cybernetic fluids. Two men raise their flechette pistols, holding down triggers as they spray hundreds of supersonic needles through the nothing.


    Too late.


    Ling1 trails just behind and now leaps forward to save his brother, claws shattering the helmet before teeth bite into face. Steel shutters try to snap shut, but it¡¯s already done. The man¡¯s brain is on its way down the zergling¡¯s gullet. Flechettes bounce off red armor, deflecting into shrapnel until a tail stinger lances forward.


    Glass shatters as neurotoxins are pumped through the engineer¡¯s skull. Granted a direct route to the neurons they are meant to inhibit. Bone once more penetrates hardened glass, jackhammering into the final man¡¯s right eye then left a dozen times. If the trauma doesn¡¯t kill the man, the poison surely will.


    With their watchdogs slain, the dozen unarmed technicians never see the zerglings coming, each one meeting death without a shot or whimper. Throats are torn out or tag teamed. One zergling trips and the other pounces. Brutally effective when the sounds of working nanofactories and power lifters cover the violence. Until deep rumbling overrides all else.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The Juggernauts are coming.


    ¡ª


    Athena ran. Carrying Kerrigan overhead. It was awkward, but better than letting the Technomancy take what little humanity she had left. Kerrigan was hers and hers alone! A truth I intend on keeping with the help of my tech armor. A suit of powered armor weighs about a thousand kilograms, or ~2200lbs. While the dual reactor variant adds an extra three hundred pounds. Well within the armor¡¯s ability to lift. Servos drove limbs forward. Eating up meters even as target locks began to seek me.


    ¡°Target lock Pfina!¡±


    ¡°I know, curl up in your armor, use the legs- ah- and arms as extra armor!¡± I gasp, panting as HUD alerts blind me.


    "Stone the flamin'' crows, mate! Them missiles are comin¡¯ in faster than a snake up a drainpipe! Take cover, ya drongo!" Shouts my suit.


    One day, I¡¯m gonna rip out this suit¡¯s coding and silence it for good.


    Until then I scream, mirroring the roar of incoming munitions. Antitank missiles, headed my way. We hear them first. A soft whoosh that zips over the trench¡¯s lip, barrelling towards us as it builds to mach speed. Kerrigan kicks a leg sideways, jerking our center of gravity left. I have no time to register the alteration in our path. Grey missile scrapes between faceplate and my upturned arm, leaving smears on both before I feel a faint thud-


    -The fins snapping off against my face.


    A missile just flew between my ear and elbow, missing me. Well, technically it slapped me silly, but I¡¯m alive so it counts as a miss.


    ¡°Ooohhshishitohshti!¡±


    By all rights, that should have killed us. No time to stop an think when I¡¯m sprinting for the bunker. It¡¯s only a few seconds away now. Corpses liter the mouth, evidence of my good boys performing above their station. A few more steps and we will be obscured. Safe.


    Electrical humming fills the air, autocannon servos whine, a Juggernaut is here. Shadows fall as the thirty foot abomination comes into view. I summon all my strength and toss Kerrigan. Her armor sailing through the trench, entering the bunker a picosecond before twelve autocannons fire.


    Now, what is an autocannon? Americans would call it a god given right, while in the Novan Technocracy it''s a colloquial expression for a variety of low tech weapons generally defined by explosive or solid munitions propelled by chemical combustion and cycled by the same chemical reaction. All told, the most common weapon across human space.


    Gates made transportation effectively free, combine free transport with the harvesting method of seeding a world with aggressive chimps then returning every ten thousand years, and economies of scale mean low tech chemical propelled projectiles are common. Albeit inefficient and highly undesirable. Perfect for the killing fields of Syrak-9. Where disposable hardware seems to be the only prerequisite. This Juggernaut is armed with autocannons akin to 20mm vulcan rounds, enough to core two Chevys. So when twelve open up, the air fogs with lead, digging a hole in the muddy trench.


    I keep running, raising my flechette pistol and cracking off a burst on manual targeting. Like an idiot. My suit has built in targeting arrays and servos capable of making microadjustments to fight recoil or align my shots more accurately. But I switched the damn thing off thinking it was how to get rid of the aussie accent! So I dump the entire magazine, one hundred flechettes zip through the air, pelting the Juggernaut¡¯s leftmost sensor mass. I may as well be launching spitwads at a lion¡¯s testicles. Or pissing gasoline at an open flame.


    Juggernaut treads reach the trench¡¯s edge, squishing mud out of their path as they sink a foot into the walls. I reload. My suit tentacles replacing the magazine with mechanical proficiency. Who would have guessed that tentacles could be a woman¡¯s best friend?


    I¡¯m glad no one heard me think that. Even in the heat of battle it¡¯s absurd.


    No time to aim or change fire rates I crack off another burst, this time aiming for the autocannon array¡¯s sensor node with my power armor¡¯s targeting assistance. Ninety needles bounce off steel, but ten buggers find glass. Hardened darts bounce off, leaving miniscule pinpricks of damage. Ten insignificant cracks in the now distorted glass. Red warnings scream in my mind, I''m being targeted by twelve separate scanners. Several of which must be missiles.


    Damn.


    Hope Kerrigan survives.


    Woulda been nice to share a real chocolate bar with her¡­

 Chapter 19 Getting Shot… Again

    Eight hundred rounds rip out of dozens of autocannons, darkening the trench. My body is on autopilot, the suit bounding. Scores of slugs pelt my armor. A handful shattering the ceramic lattice to tear through alloyed layers, eight into the shoulder armor, and four center mass. One deflects, blasting a hole in my armor and weakening overall structural integrity with the explosive round. Two claim my reactor, gutting suit power. And the final hit digs into my ribs, blasting a hole in my side. My heart literally skips several beats, the concussive force knocking it into arrhythmia. Atriums and Ventricles squish at once, then fire at random in a vain attempt to restart the natural rhythm. In short, I got shot so hard I had a dozen simultaneous heart attacks.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: FUCK THAT HURTS!


    >Executrix Alaea: FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK


    Great, I knew we were entangled beings, but I hadn¡¯t truly grasped how tightly our senses were linked until that moment.


    >Terran Thena: Sorry.


    I mean it. They¡¯re me. Not offshoots of me, but harmonized minds; three beings all stemming from a unified source, closer than triplets. Harming them is one of the last things I could ever wish for.


    My legs keep pumping. Alien muscle fibers working tirelessly to survive. Combined with relentless power armor. Servos and one reactor drive me deep into the bunker. Past crates of supplies, tables, a second nanofactory and the two not-zerglings who are busy eating the contents of ripped open power armors.


    [+4 biomass]


    For a split second I wonder how the biomass will make it back to Hygieia, hoping it won''t have to fully process through her lings. A question Alaea answers shortly, in an outcry that would have made me laugh if I weren''t suffering multiple heart attacks.


    >Executrix Alaea: GROSS! WHY DID YOU CHEW IT FIRST? DEAD BODIES ARE BETTER THAN THIS!


    Lingling2¡¯s belly is distended with the infusion of human meat, turning the fearsome spinosaurus wolf into a blood drunk tick. Inside the bunker all is quiet, except for the galaxy¡¯s most heavily armed tank outside, venting the last rounds of hate into an empty trench. How am I alive? My best guess is a needle bent an important sensor. Causing it to aim high and mostly miss me. A destroyed sensor would have been compensated for, in other words, I flicked the lion¡¯s scrotum and pissed him off so bad that he leapt twenty feet into the air and let me walk under him.


    I¡¯m beyond lucky.


    Emergency subroutines run, several metal tentacles extend to my chest, planting electrodes that stabilize my heart with electrical impulses. Agony fills my torso, fire and heat as my heartbeat is restored by force. That probably trimmed a decade off my life expectancy, although on Syrak I''m already past due.


    I try to inhale and find a feeling I hoped to never experience. My diaphragm flexes, ribs move, and absolutely zero air enters my lungs. Flash training warns me that this is a sucking chest wound. The human body relies on a sealed chest cavity to create the pressure differential that is necessary for breathing. Without that sealed cavity the lungs lose any and all ability to pressurize and depressurize, meaning I can''t move air. I¡¯m going to suffocate in the next minute. Probably less considering I¡¯ve been sprinting, depleting my body¡¯s natural reserves of oxygen. I don¡¯t stop running, jogging right into the rear wall as I activate the damn aussie suit, scrolling through subroutines as my vision darkens. All my luck has gone to waste.


    ¡°Need to- ahh-¡± My voice trails off, unable to exhale and create sound.


    One final word escapes my lips, less violent than a sea breeze scented bar of soap.


    ¡°Tri-aaggge.¡±


    The suit responds, although I almost wish it hadn¡¯t.


    "Blimey, cobber! Got a chest wound suckin¡¯ like a thirsty goanna at a waterhole! I¡¯m throwin¡¯ a patch on it faster than a croc chasin¡¯ tourists!"


    The accent reminds me of Bazzhole, the good times when he made me laugh. He had a certain Steve Irwin appeal that I''m loathe to reminisce.


    Fire enters my side. Biofoam, a sort of damage sealant, plugs the hole in my armor. Injected by subroutines I failed to find. My life is saved. I inhale, sweet canned oxygen that only smells a little of industrial lubricants and muddy feet. Kinks aside, nothing has ever tasted so sweet. I hear the rumbling of the juggernaut outside, backing away, heading for an access ramp. There will be two within a hundred meters of the bunker. I have seconds to find a weapon. One quick glance at the zerglings tells me they¡¯re more worthless than my flechette pistol. Not really their fault, just evolved for a different enemy.


    >Terran Thena: Grab your lings, they¡¯re too fat now. Gonna die. Need heavier.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: feck. I literally just made this!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: will you find a bunker and lock yourself in?!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: don¡¯t get my test bug squished!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: took me ages to cook up a two biomass monster


    >Matriarch Hygieia: feckfeckfeck


    >Matriarch Hygieia: he is not done


    Both not-zerglings vanish, warped out by whatever technomagic the Executrix commands from the confines of her closet. In a way I¡¯m jealous, she gets technology so advanced it may as well be magic, while I¡¯m in the mud. But a part of me savors the adrenaline. I am the spear. Everyone is counting on me. My win is a step towards Victory for Earth.


    Reminding me of my newest friend, brought to you by Lingling2. Two plasma rifles warp into my hands, fully loaded, compliments of dead iguanas. Power armor recognizes the guns and feeds me possible firing solutions only to come up short as Hygieia¡¯s latest creature appears.


    A roly-poly beetle interrupts my thoughts, looking particularly annoyed and somewhat squished. As if the bugger has been stuck under someone¡¯s toes for the past half hour. It stretches, wasting precious seconds to unrumple itself.


    I look it up and down, realizing what my other half, or uhm, other third, has done. This isn¡¯t just a beetle. Hygieia, mad lass that she is, cooked up a pint sized roach.


    I think.


    It¡¯s four feet tall, and four feet long with segmented plates to its black carapace except in the joints where I can see electric green fluid circulating. Like a nuclear blooded xenomorph pill bug. Except each leg is a spear and the thing has two foot long mandibles. Capabilities appear in my mind, as if I¡¯ve always known them. Which on some level is probably true since I seem to be irrevocably linked to them on some cellular or atomic level. Maybe even quantumly.


    Entangled minds. It would explain our ability to connect to one another via this sort of chat function.


    The roach nudges my suit with a leg, asking why it was summoned.


    ¡°Righty ho! Fight the juggernaut. Or delay it by any means necessary! Dig a pit and trip the bastard if you have to!¡±


    Chitinous mandibles click once and the beetle zips away faster than a lightning bug. I chase his departure with plasma fire, shots aimed at the only portion of the Juggernaut I can see. Its treads. My aim is off missing the wide side of a barn. For one precious second I pant. Inhaling with every ounce of strength I can. Firing blindly will accomplish nothing.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Kerrigan appears at my side, taking one of the plasma rifles from me. I give a thumbs up, and activate the full capabilities of a technician¡¯s suit. Manifests of supplies and equipment scroll across my eyes, searching this bunker for anything I can use. Hundreds of missiles sit in racks, too finicky for me to throw and somehow arm with my suit alone. The nanofactory near the bunker''s rear is my best hope, maybe It can cook up a rocket launcher that will obliterate the pilot after I burn through the Juggernaut¡¯s armor.


    I hobble around behind it, muting my mic so Kerrigan can¡¯t hear me cry after being shot for the millionth time.


    >Terran Thena: You healed me earlier, got anymore?


    >Executrix Alaea: You¡¯re ALIVE? I thought you died! How much pain are you gonna put me through?


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯ll stop getting hurt if you make us a shield generator.


    >Executrix Alaea: ¡­ you suck.


    >Executrix Alaea: No shields today, but reaper¡¯s done. So are the demo charges. I¡¯m elbow deep in Technomancy DRM, so I¡¯m kinda stuck. Be safe Athena. NO UNNECESSARY RISKS YOU BITCH.


    DRM? Great, even in space there are patent trolls.


    My fingers curl into a fist, slamming into the composite shell I''m leaning against. I don¡¯t want to die.


    ¡°Authentication received.¡± Appears against the internal screens of my armor.


    That¡¯s right, we¡¯re wearing Technomancy armor.


    Technomancy technician''s armor.


    Trinity must be pressing them hard if they know I¡¯m a saboteur and they haven¡¯t changed passwords. That thought alone beats back the pain. We¡¯re going to win. We can save Earth.


    A few quick button presses and the nanofactory gives me options for a dozen explosives. We have grenades, fragmentation and high explosive, land mines of the anti tank and anti person varieties. I scroll through the menu, ignoring the rocket fire outside. Ah, here it is, rocket launcher, individual tube. I¡¯m about to press the green build button, then I see it¡¯s build time, thirty minutes. Radar says I have forty five seconds before a Juggernaut rolls into this bunker. Thirty two seconds before I¡¯m face to face with its guns. Damn roach didn¡¯t buy me any time! Probably rolled up in a ball and got shot to shit.


    I press the build button for an anti tank mine, peeking over the Nanofactory¡¯s lip as the seconds tick by.


    ¡°Kerrigan, get under cover then go dark. Turn off your suit and hide.¡±


    Our radio chirps once. She knows what to do. Out of sheer desperation I check on the damn roach, finding it burrowed in deep mud. Idle while it senses the world. Tremorsense reactivates touching every plate of the Juggernauts treads as it rolls down the ramp, guns forward.


    ¡°Oh¡­ Clever girl. Should have mentioned the plan earlier!¡±


    Guns are pointed forward, not towards the bunker. No time to build anything, nor any need to.


    ¡°Carpe diem mothertrucker.¡±


    >Terran Thena: Reaper pack and bombs. ANY BOMBS! NOW!


    Servos whine, broken reactor hisses radioactive coolant, unable to shut off. I¡¯m running for the door, preparing to meet the Juggernaut head on when a Jetpack appears on my back and a bandoleer of explosives across my chest. I leap, propelling myself into the air twenty feet before activating the dual thrusters. My armor¡¯s gel layer inflates on the bounce which narrowly saves me from a massive concussion as my head bounces off the ceiling, deploying the steel shutters of my HELP system. Acceleration meters spike to several G¡¯s of force as I fly over the Juggernaut, dropping three bombs with my BFT.


    Best Friend Tentacles.


    Best Friendacles?


    Maybe it''s the punctured lung, but I can''t quite piece together why that''s funny.


    Juggernaut¡¯s have guns and sensors that will track targets and aim ahead of them, leading them and shooting where an enemy will be when the bullet reaches them. Except none of that works when your guns are pointed forward and I¡¯m coming from the side. Guns fire anyways, pilot trying to kill me. A thousand rounds cut through the air as I fly out of the trench.


    Two bombs hit, bouncing between barrels. Proximity fuses fail to activate. My thrusters cut out and I tumble across no man¡¯s land faceplanting in a looping cartwheel as I display all the grace of an obese turkey after Thanksgiving dinner. Then the third bomb hits the ramp sending a sharp knock through the Juggernaut¡¯s superstructure. HUD says no damage, but it activates the other bombs. Multiple explosions roar, sending a shockwave through the air, juggernaut and trench. Powerful enough to collapse my lil roach¡¯s tunnel. With the juggernaut atop it.


    I roll to my side, cracking off three shots with the plasma rifle. Blue orbs of liquid fire cross the gap to slag sensors blinding the tank. Engines roar. The pilot must be trying to free the vehicle only for the whole tank to tip forward, front half teetering precipitously as its treads swell with mud and green roach debris. I help it along with another bomb thrown under its upraised butt. Trapped beneath the Juggernaut¡¯s thickest armor and the earth, my bomb¡¯s full explosive potential is realized. Flipping the tank.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you got my roach squished


    >Terran Thena: Better than getting myself squished!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: idk


    >Matriarch Hygieia: the roach was cuter


    ¡°You god damn bitch.¡± I say with a smile, watching the Juggernaut flop.


    Guns roar in a final attempt to remain grounded, hoping recoil alone will right the disaster. I laugh, jumping into the air once more. Legs tuck, cutting jetpack thrust to execute an in air one eighty, reactivating thrusters when the jetpack is pointed away from the Juggernaut. Twin turbines hurl me towards the Juggernaut, sending me crashing into it¡¯s rear at fifty miles an hour.


    Pain explodes in my shot lung, splattering blood on my HUD. No amount of biofoam or gel is enough to cushion my impact. Helmet visor cracks despite the HELP reinforcement, my ribs feel like a train ran over them, which might not be inaccurate. My hand snags the rear access port, suit tentacles undoing the single bolt that retains this particular access port.


    Those little guys really work fast. Makes me wonder what their APM would be, easily past 1k, although I''m not entirely sure how they are picking up on my wants and needs. In this case only my eyes focus on the bolt before they unscrew it.


    Only one bolt is used for a reason. Juggernauts are partially biological in nature with the pilot grafted into the vehicle. This port is a second access port to the waste evacuation system. Wet diarrhea pours out this port splashing across my armor. Tears flow down my cheeks as I struggle to breathe. Grateful I can''t smell. Two plasma shots clear the remaining garbage making space for the democharge in my hand. It slips from my grasp. Falling into the Juggernaut¡¯s second anus.


    One leg is working well enough to kick. Launching me five feet into the air. Pathetic, but enough to clear the treads. Lungs burn, vision darkens. I land facedown in mud, splatting as a shockwave kills the pilot. Missiles detonate blasting apart any remaining tubes and most of the autocannons. The Juggernaut¡¯s superstructure screams as explosions rip it in half, curling it into wreckage that will lock this bunker down for good.


    Technocracy systems do a self analysis and update my HUD. The bunker blinks red, sigils indicating the Singularity took it. A chuckle escapes my lips. They haven¡¯t updated my signal as an enemy combatant yet. A moment passes as I breathe, too tired to do anything.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: i had to lay that egg ya know


    >Matriarch Hygieia: how am i supposed to make roaches now?!


    The Technocracy sends out another update, finally marking me as a traitor. I don¡¯t recognize the symbols but a pretty good guess would be ¡®shoot this cunt on sight!¡¯. Then my Technocracy HUD winks out. It only took them two lost supertanks to lock me out. My legs kick, trying to end my tenure as a lawn dart. Rocking armor back and forth squelching deeper into the mud. Aw hell. This is backwards.


    I warp Ling1 back to me. Deeply appreciative of teleportation.


    ¡°Hey, come push me out of the mud.¡± I order, seriously contemplating how I¡¯m asking a spinosaurus wolf to be my knight in bio-luminescent armor.


    Which is when a tingle hits me. Starting along my toes before rushing across my hairless skin. Suit power fails, with both Singularity helmet and Technomancy armor going dark at the same time. There is no response from the reaper jetpack either, I¡¯m dead.


    Like a stick in the mud, except more literal. Armor locks in place, servos calcifying, not allowing any motion other than small adjustments to bring me closer to the recovery position. It¡¯s a preservation mechanism, invented after one too many technicians got knocked off space stations and kept screwing their rescuers by flailing around or trying to grab onto equipment. So the recovery position was invented. Under certain conditions the suit would lock down, legs straight, arms at side. Streamlined really.


    That way you can¡¯t scream if the recovery craft accidental mag locks your taint and rips out those sensitive piercings. Or complain when the magnetic grapnel pins your arm to your chest, crushing it until you¡¯ll need a prosthetic.


    I scream into my helmet. Trying to reboot either one. No luck. Not until my good boy pulls me out of the mud with a squelch, becoming my impromptu palanquin with Lingling2''s assistance, floating me into the bunker and dropping me beside Kerrigan. There are no lights or LEDs coming from the hardware or engineer suits. Something knocked out all the electronics¡­


    >Terran Thena: Suit died, EMP maybe? Need a replacement for me and Kerrigan.


    >Executrix Alaea: Suits aboard are fine so I got you


    >Executrix Alaea: wait.


    >Executrix Alaea: WHO?


    >Terran Thena: joke, 2 suits plz


    >Executrix Alaea: Aight. But I''m stacking all this biomass in there with you. Including this dead roach!


    A flash of blue light strips the suit off myself, dropping a replacement in front of me. Now THIS is a level of service I could get used to.


    [+4 technician armor]

 Chapter 20 Eye of the Storm

    I crawl over to the new suit, wiggling into it as Kerrigan does the same. She¡¯s agile, picking up my plasma rifle with the armor¡¯s arms while stuffing spare rations into the suit with her own limbs. Like a greedy monkey.


    Wait, how is she moving the suit arms? Is her tail doing that?


    The reaper jetpack and twin reactors move over to the new suit, still running at half power. No spare reactors means that Kerrigan will be exposed to lethal radiation. For a world we aren¡¯t allowed to irradiate, there sure is a lot of radiation. Who was dumb enough to nuke a mining world anyways? Even as the question enter¡¯s my mind I groan, knowing Jim¡¯s alien download will answer my question.


    Annoyance tickles my heart, quashed by the surrounding noise. Nothing is moving. No artillery outside, no roaring autocannons or rolling Juggernauts. I have a moment of peace, time I can use to rearm and reassess.


    Syrak-9 was always a mining world, but now serves as an intergalactic punching ground. Each month a new army is dropped onto the distant continent, a place that was long ago depleted of Solarium -where I am now- to participate in wargames that boil down to, you get to export one pound of Solarium for every acre of land you hold, but in alien units. Don¡¯t ask me to convert hecataris to acres or volumes of alien frenulums to cubic feet. Metric to Imperial is bad enough.


    All my flashtraining really communicates is more land = better. So simple, yet so impossible. Eight factions currently hold ground with only the Singularity, Technocracy, and until today the Tulverians actively trying to gain ground while the others hide within ancient fortifications, digging deeper every day. Better to hold a hundred acres for a thousand years than to risk your future for a monopoly. Especially when there are hundreds of warships waiting in orbit, ready to add their army to the economic argument.


    Once a month the -nameless- caste grants permission for a single ship to enter orbit and secure a landing site. Of course, ship displacement is regulated so as not to pollute the skies with an endless legion of ever-engorging cargo freighters. Applicants must also be a warship with shields and guns, as the easiest way of eliminating one faction is to destroy the ship on approach, before it can land and deposit troops or fortifications upon the surface.


    Fully half the deployed forces are some sort of anti-ship device., be they burrowed cannons capable of firing a single shot per month and spending the next thirty days recharging, or the grand bombardment arrays of faction headquarters, with more shields and guns than a fully armed Technocracy fleet.


    How we were portaled in begins to itch. The Singularity cheated, which the -nameless- must know, but they allowed it anyways. They must want us to win. I pause, that makes no sense, the nameless don¡¯t deal with base races like humans, in fact, they barely deal with races we would consider immortal, something about the void of understanding being too distant between a nameless and others. Like trying to communicate quantum mechanics to an ant, even if it could speak your language the insect would literally die of old age before you finished the preamble, and it has no concept of science or even the necessary schooling required to understand the foundational knowledge.


    So client races exist as go-betweens. Acting as a path from the human to a metaphorical queen ant who devotes their entire existance to understanding a fragment of knowledge greater than themselves, and via that knowledge lift the base race. Becoming puppies who obey the -nameless-, a vaunted honor and probably why they haven¡¯t bothered to give us their name. No, our victory or loss didn¡¯t factor into the nameless¡¯ decision, something else is going on here.


    ¡°Why did they want us to die here?¡± I mutter aloud, running through a systems check.


    New suit, new gasmask, and new flechette pistol all work, each piece of my gear replacing the old. I¡¯m locked and loaded once more. With our damaged gear already back in Alaea¡¯s nanofactory for repairs. The only items I keep are the FNX and the combat knife, both tucked into my waistband. More to provide comfort than actual defense, as nothing on Syrak should be vulnerable to such a small autocannon or blade.


    "Emotional support gun. Yeah, I like the sound of that." I say, giggling to myself.


    Still, nothing is sitting right with me, like when you know you¡¯ve missed something obvious about your opponent¡¯s hand and haven¡¯t figured it out yet. Metaphorically, i¡¯ve scouted my enemy¡¯s main at two minutes and see three depots in the wall, but no barracks. Cheese is incoming, be it a proxied factory or a ghost in the main three minutes from now. My heart begins to pound out the anxiety, working my problem.


    First a Field Marshal is appointed, then we are portaled into the front lines without guns. This sounds like a terribly implemented terraforming project rather than a war. Human lives spent as biomass alone. Logic that follows the idea of spill enough blood, belch enough hydrocarbons out of missiles, and eventually nature will find a way to break the corpses into flowers. I ponder the information I have, running through all memories of Syrak-9.


    With hundreds of warships in space, weapons and taxi orders are strictly regulated. Except for civilizations with armies already planetside. To keep things interesting, each existing faction is allowed one resupply a month often coinciding with each other as that will split any fire from the ground. No matter what, there will be more soldiers sent, more blood spilled, and more war for the -nameless- to observe. For there is always one of their ships in orbit.


    I take a breath of silence. Even the Juggernaut outside seems to have been knocked out, and their systems are hardened against EMP devices of all kinds. That''s why the ''wetware'' is grafted into them in the first place! Whatever slapped this continent is of greater technical prowess. Most likely a race more akin to the -nameless-.


    Speculation suggests they enjoy watching other races die, or that this world -alongside hundreds of similar mining worlds- acts as a release valve. Somewhere competing factions use to expend their growing armies with limited collateral damage. Other cynics suggest there is no purpose in this wargame or life in general, and that the nameless are simply collecting intel on different faction¡¯s armies and technology levels. But no one listens to cynics, partly because those melancholy assholes are the most uninteresting things in the universe. Like a damp sponge, lukewarm and wet, that you¡¯ve accidentally brushed against.


    Good thing we can wash away their squinch with solarium mining and the wealth such mining brings. That alone is well worth the cost of military divulgence.


    A fusion reactor that runs for ten thousand years is well worth thousands of lives.


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    A fact the Azhurai conglomerate takes full advantage of. Their territory hasn¡¯t fluctuated in six hundred years, despite thousands of incursions into it. Gears turn inside my head. One of the factions detonated an EMP. Of the current competing factions, only the Tulverians should gain a strong advantage, but the Singularity has enough Earthling weapons to fight off the iguanas with shovels and bullets. While the other factions would have to traverse Azhurai territory to reach us.


    My silent pondering drags on for long minutes. Nearly a half hour of rebooting systems and replacing hardware. Or desperately scrambling to find what works. Outside the bunker artillery begins to land once more, walking closer towards the Juggernauts. Dumb rounds fired by eyeballs and gut instincts without any newfangled ballistic targeting assistance. While Juggernaut pilots shudder in their hulls, surgically attached to crippled treads, shitting ducks, only able to fire the most basic autocannons with embedded biomechanical triggers. The thought of those abominations sitting helpless as artillery crews zero in sets my heart a twitter.


    A pulsing that becomes pure pain as my heart is still sore from being tazered into rhythm. Damn Juggernauts trying to kill me-


    Wait.


    -Two Juggernauts were coming to kill me. Not one. My job is only half done.


    ¡°Lings! Go kill the nearest Juggernaut! It¡¯s probably got guns aimed at our ramp so you¡¯ll have to¨C¡±


    The damn spinosaurus sprints headfirst out the bunker running up the wall like a meth soaked gecko, gone before I finish pronouncing kill. I¡¯m ready to sense him die, but that is his purpose and will serve to warn Kerrigan and I of a functional enemy.


    Who I find sitting against the nanofactory, helmet and chest plate open. Exposed to the radiation. A fact she seems to be unaware of. Since she¡¯s sitting on top of the armor happily chomping away on ration packs.


    ¡°Saved you one Pfina.¡± She says, her tail darting into the suit and retrieving a chocolate ration.


    She¡¯s changed. Her eyes were always purple, but now ears poke beyond her hair, long and pointed. Like a space elf. Stranger still, her skin is now a dark olive, as if she¡¯s a peeled apple and oxidizing before my eyes. So many questions run through my mind that I activate the suit¡¯s scanners, giving her a full sweep. Kerrigan¡¯s skin darkens a shade and the results nearly make me facepalm. She doesn¡¯t show up at all, as if she has organic countermeasures to detection or is somehow absorbing my scans, and why the bioweapon didn¡¯t kill her.


    ¡°Thanks Kerrigan.¡± I manage to say, kneeling in front of her, trying not to look at the plasma rifle in her armor¡¯s hand.


    After the day we¡¯ve had, chocolate tastes amazing. Good enough I¡¯m not bothered by the normal scents of trench warfare or the gutted engineers around us. We eat quietly. Not difficult considering my suit is the only working computer within sensor range.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, can you scan the person I¡¯m next to? I need to know how bad her radiation poisoning is.


    >Executrix Alaea: Someone picked up my interference. That EMP might have been for me¡­


    >Terran Thena: You got my suit working easily enough. Don¡¯t worry about it.


    The words trouble me as I say them, without Alaea¡¯s warping engine we are long dead. I¡¯d love to have her stop and protect herself, but Kerrigan is going to die over the next few days as her body falls apart. Radiation poisoning is a terrible thing. Skin will fall off in patches, cells dividing in a chaotic jumble until she¡¯s riddled with cancer. Her hair will fall out, then fingernails, probably the tip of her tail as well. I still have the flechette pistol, if it¡¯s bad enough I might have to end her misery.


    Light blinks around Kerrigan engulfing her in an instant. Once more faster than I can blink.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Kerrigan asks, jaw moving in a more humanlike way.


    I give her another once over, noticing more than just her skin has changed. How could I have missed all these changes? She¡¯s six inches taller, with dark scales forming over her ladyness. Smoothing everything out, almost like a mannequin.


    >Executrix Alaea: DAMN TECHNO IDIOTS STOLE MY CAT!


    The venom in Alaea¡¯s message makes me jump out of my skin.


    ¡°Ah! Oh, nothing, it was nothing Kerrigan, I¡¯m just checking to see if you¡¯re hurt.¡± I say.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Sad, no space pussies for you.


    >Terran Thena: Can you not scream in my mind please?


    >Executrix Alaea: Sorry. Did I just scan your Kerrigan?


    >Terran Thena: uhh¡­ yes? How bad is it? She¡¯s a Technocracy bioweapon¡­ right?


    >Executrix Alaea: NO. She¡¯s a meditation aid. Something to help races like mine learn to manage their powers as children like getting a puppy to teach your kid responsibility. Or, more relevantly, when a new mind gets stuffed into their body during some kind of resurrection ritual. Your ¡®Kerrigan¡¯ was supposed to be delivered a week ago! Those assholes stole a damn service cat! Well, it¡¯s not really a cat, kinda. More like a warmblooded tiger lizard thing. With psychic abilities and the Collective just call them psychic aids.


    >Terran Thena: She doesn¡¯t look like a catgirl¡­ More like an elf mixed with a scorpion.


    >Executrix Alaea: Yeah, she''s odd. Mutated into a humanoid shape. Not sure what to do with that or how it was done. In general they take on some characteristics of the food they eat, its an adaptation tactic so they can be shipped across the galaxy. Meditation aids like her are probably the best thing the Endless Collective Straingineers ever cooked up. So desirable we had to set a quota on how many they produce.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Wait¡­ You are telling me I can make INFINITE KERRIGANS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: BEAM HER TO ME RIGHT NOW!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: NOW!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: NOW!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: NOW!


    -Matriarch Hygieia- has been muted.


    >Executrix Alaea: haha. Idiot. You think a -nameless- restriction can be circumvented? We can''t even think their name within the confines of our own minds! You won¡¯t be able to make her without beating those mental locks. AND You aren''t listening! Technocracy did things to her. She isn''t a Collective bioform anymore.


    >Executrix Alaea: Anyways¡­ Radiation will heighten her abilities or uhm¡­ mental emanations. If she hasn¡¯t started glowing yet, she will, and it¡¯ll be a good thing. Idk what the Novassholes injected into her, but she isn¡¯t supposed to look like that. Does she talk? I beamed out the vials of acid in her spine and skull. So she won¡¯t pop. Damn cyborgs. Shit. If she were normal I could beam her aboard and break out of this closet! Catnapping is ENTIRELY UNACCEPTABLE! This ought to be a warcrime!


    I consider asking how a cat was supposed to help Alaea break out of the closet, but I''m suddenly presented with the image of cat shaped keyholes. Which would be entirely overconstricted for the young girl looking at me with sparkling purple eyes.


    ¡°Uhm wow. You¡¯re healthier than I am Kerrigan. The suit doesn¡¯t actually help you¡­¡±


    ¡°How will I carry all thethes- Ahem, these, snacks.¡± She says, tongue accidentally separating her lower jaw.


    Her lisp is fading fast, only saying hello when her inhuman anatomy asserts itself.


    What kind of alien cat could make a Kerrigan? I wonder, but decide to leave that thought alone.


    Like our ration packs, some things should not be examined too closely. Instead we opt to salvage everything we can from this bunker.


    Tremorsense alerts me to the dropping of ducks. My lings found the Juggernaut and have employed their claws fully. Slashing and hacking through layers of steel and armor, a process that will take them hours.


    Fine by me.


    Alaea aids our looting of the second nanofactory, increasing our manufacturing capacity and supplies. She also beams down a replacement arm for my suit, taken directly from the Engineer. As in, the engineer whose wrist computer has the ciphers for every crate and temporal lock in this supply bunker. A skeleton key to Christmas morning.


    Stacks of open crates lie looted, like a peanut farm that¡¯s been visited by a herd of hungry elephants. We have weapons, a manufacturing base, and a half hour later Hygieia sends her ¡®defective¡¯ soldiers to me. Four plasma rifle wielding, power armor wearing, human-collective hybrids.


    [5 / 13 Mechanized]


    Finally, I¡¯m not alone.


    More importantly.


    It¡¯s time to see what these marines can do. For they can only be called marines, because they were born on a ship, armored aboardships, and deployed from a starship, thus they are space marines in the most literal definition.

 Chapter 21 These Ain’t your Daddy’s Marines

    When using alien biomass to formulate a human being one would think that the overall shape would have some input on the creature¡¯s mind or at least temper the end product¡¯s mutation; resulting in something recognizable. Maybe they would have some odd ears or spikey arms, maybe even a tail like Kerrigan¡¯s.


    What I did not expect were the creatures in front of me. First and foremost stands the most gorgeous man I¡¯ve ever seen. Chiseled features and a jaw so defined that the Eiffel tower would bend over and call it daddy. I have no chance to appreciate him as he drops to hands and knees then starts crawling across the bunker floor sniffing dirt.


    Hygieia, what the fuck did you do to Fabio?


    ¡°Uhm, you alright down there?¡±


    He turns, mouth hanging open and barks. BARKS! Not a normal woof woof, but yappy, like a soy infused chihuahua hopped up on gooseballs and set free from purse prison.


    ¡°Arf arf arf,¡± he stops to sniff another marine¡¯s crotch armor then shakes his lower half before yapping away. ¡°Arf arf arf-¡±.


    ¡°NOPE!¡± I shout, struggling to form words.


    ¡°Nope! You! Uh- oh god- BARKER! Shut your helmet and stand on your own two feet!¡± I snap.


    Obedient to a fault his helmet seals. Though figuring out how to be bipedal is a whole different question. At least the faceplate dampens his inane yapping. We can all still hear him, yapping away inside the fishbowl like a reality TV star. Pain fresh in my eyes, I look to the next ¡®marine¡¯ who salutes me in crisp Singularity fashion. A gesture of greeting and recognition of a superior. All honored ideals of the Holiest Singularity.


    ¡°Reporting for duty sir.¡± Says the second marine.


    ¡°Oh thank god! Here I was thinking you would all be dog soldiers like Barker.¡±


    ¡°No sir. Our base strains were expedited by Hygieia¡¯s request. So each warrior was made from the most expedient biomass and carries a unique genotype sir.¡± Says the second marine over coms.


    My eyes narrow. Not liking the implications of ''most expedient biomass''.


    >Terran Thena: I know you said defective, but this is absurd!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: we can melt them back down into their base components whenever but you wanted quick!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: i made twelve and only four passed the sanity check


    >Matriarch Hygieia: results will improve


    >Matriarch Hygieia: when I land


    The sanity check¡­?


    I stare at those words for a painful second.


    ¡°Shit, chat we¡¯re doing this live. Helmets open.¡±


    It¡¯s hard to say just how instantly my regret landed and not because Barker followed the order first. The second marine wasn¡¯t remotely human. I¡¯m ten feet away and can see dozens of worms woven together into a collective facsimile. Looking at him is like looking at a man made of vines. Except vines don¡¯t squirm. Or writhe like these worms do. I nearly throw up my rations, narrowly managing to keep them down by shutting my eyes and counting to ten. His ¡®head¡¯ haunts my mind the entire time, multilayered like a flowerbud yet perpetually moving in illogical angles with a few detaching into stalks like chin-eyeballs to peer around.


    I''ve never wished for a Drakken Laser drill more than I did right in that second. Yet the power of a star pales when faced with that head.


    ¡°Private Barker and Sergeant Wormface. Great way to start a war¡­¡± I mumble, already fearing what comes next.


    Wormface recieves the promotion on ability, as Hygiea made him to be the most cognitively capable. Something about having ten thousand brains really helps with memory retention.


    The third soldier is surprisingly normal yet completely wrong all at once. Dark hair, two eyes, a recognizable nose and mouth are all things that should reassure me and should¡¯ve set my mind at ease. Should have.


    ¡°Are¡­ Are you an Emu?¡±


    His head is that of a duck¡¯s, but darker and a bit weedier with thicker feathers, a dark bill and huge eyes. I recognize it, but am in no way happy to see the familiarities. At my question his feathers flare into a mohawk. Anime eyes blinking in my direction.


    "Private Emu reporting sir. I''ve been tasked with your security detail ready to crack on, if you¡¯ll have me." Says the bird man.


    >Terran Thena: You sent me worm, birdman, and a sexy chihuahua¡­ What the ever loving fuck Hygieia!?!?!?!?!?


    I know she won¡¯t respond. There is nothing to say¨C


    >Matriarch Hygieia: You¡¯re upset about the dog?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hehehehehehehehe


    >Matriarch Hygieia: AHAHAHAHAHA


    >Matriarch Hygieia: sorry


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I asked Zazathur for help


    My bowels freeze. If she is laughing about Barker then there are only a handful of awful monstrosities that can be under the fourth helmet. Probably some kind of winged cockroach that speaks in hisses and clicks. For some reason that marine sought out darkness, sitting down in the shadows of several crates. Which only serves to unnerve Kerrigan and I. At the sight of fourth she ducks into her armor, half eaten chocolate bar sticking out of her mouth, and raises the plasma rifle. Deep inside my soul I wish she would just pull the trigger.


    Eight glowing red eyes are peering out of the darkness. Internal suit lights dialed to minimum in the EMP enforced darkness of our bunker. Where a human head should be sits two slanted lines of four pupil-less eyes. Six external fangs glisten, giving the appearance of a spider protecting its body with a wall of legs. Most disgusting of all, the spider isn¡¯t covered in chitin as I expect. No, for some unthinkable reason Zazathur decided to give this particular abomination hot pink hairs. Like a razzledazzle tarantula.


    I¡¯m grateful my helmet visor is shut. Cause I start gagging at the sight of him.


    ¡°HELMETS ON!¡±


    Four visors cinch shut. Sealing a second later. I tap Kerrigan¡¯s oversized shoulder with my armored hands.


    ¡°I know he¡¯s kinda- uhm¡­ Unusual. But these are my-¡± I choke on the word, unable to call them my friends. ¡°They are my acquaintances. My friend¡¯s friends.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re mutants. We should exterminate them all.¡± Says Kerrigan, no hint of her former lisp.


    Whatever physiological changes are occurring to her faster than I can think.


    ¡°No. They have obeyed my orders. We can''t abandon loyalty.¡±


    Her finger tightens on the trigger and for a full minute I believe she is going to blast spider-man right in his creepy face. Truth be told, it''s not the worst thing that could happen. I¡¯m not proud to admit it, but more than half of me is hoping she deletes him. When the trigger breaks I¡¯m not surprised. Until I see the orb of energy fly past Spiderman. Out the bunker and into the trench where it seems to collide with air. Blue plasma swirls around invisible shielding.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Light flares, a smaller sphere sprouting from nothing as a larger sphere crackles with rippling energy. Like a pond trying to restore opacity.


    Kerrigan fires again, her shot connecting with an opposing orb of white plasma, smaller and harder, as if the ball of superheated particles is more tightly covalent. Matter obliterates its opposite, blinding all targeting sensors in a dazzling array of sparklers greater than a hundred Fourth of July finales. My rifle moves adding a second plasma rifle to the firefight. Wormface and Emu spin, firing while Barker sprints for the door, a shovel in hand.


    Five plasma rifles crack the shielding, shorting out whatever field kept this particular ambusher invisible. From my angle, obscured by rifle and red dot the creature appears metallic. Some sort of quadruped with what appears to be a jetpack. It rolls. Evading Kerrigan¡¯s shot then twists, too many legs bunching as it prepares to leap away. At least six limbs are curled beneath this thing.


    Indecision strikes hard. I want to kill it, but oh baby! A cloaking device is just what momma needs! How can I obliterate my dream of cosplaying as a ghost, not the friendly Casper kind but the invisible assassins who cannot be seen!


    A personal shield and cloak would have saved me a dozen times over. Plus it''s been hardened to survive an EMP that shut down Juggernauts. As the ancient saying goes, in a world of blind men the one eyed man is king. Excitement jerks my shot.


    An emotional failing that my minions -especially Spiderman- seem immune to. His shot pierces the machine¡¯s neck. Kerrigan alternates shots with Spiderman, shooting until head rolls free.


    ¡°Quick, drag the body inside!¡±


    Barker lunges using the full power of his suit to flatten the shovel against the predator¡¯s spine. His radio yips as the shovel explodes in his hand, obliterated by the force of his power armor against a construct''s reinforced body. But he complies faster than expected, dragging the thing into our bunker. Obedient, although a bit foolhardy, if he wants to fight in melee like a barking zealot we¡¯ll have to find some energy blades for him. I crack a few messages off about that, while Wormface issues basic orders spreading the squad out so our firing positions overlap, giving Barker and I a chance to appraise the wreckage.


    Close up it looks like a Chinese temple dog, carved from silver jade. Stylized mane with sweeping curls that intertwine in a seamlessly infinite spiral of fur, enormous claws and a mouth meant to tear off limbs all decorate this moving statue while yellow light leaks out the neckhole and the cannon¡¯s muzzle. Back mounted nacels seem to indicate a functional jetpack but I have no idea where to start dissecting a sculpted alien dog-lion thing. And part of me doesn¡¯t want to, from an aesthetic standpoint the thing is gorgeous. More finely carved than any Roman sculptor could dream of. There are holes and empty spaces within the statue, as if sculpted then overlaid with a lattice of marble.


    How it was manufactured is beyond my engineering mind, and possibly beyond human understanding.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, 1337 H3X0R, got a¡­ a something for you. It¡¯s like a Starcraft predator but with a photon cannon and a jetpack except really pretty too, like way past 4k. Gotta be at least 16k.


    >Executrix Alaea: Do you know how insane you sound right now? Should I be calling a shrink to tease apart the secrets of your ramblings? Dangit. Now I''m curious! Tag it.


    I do more than mark the thing, I teleport it straight to Alaea¡¯s closet.


    >Executrix Alaea: ooooohhhh snap! I¡¯ve heard of these! Well, my body has... Anyways! It¡¯s an Azhurai Conglomerate SCOUT. Wow, they psionically sculpt these things while dreaming, its one of the techniques I came here to learn. Each one must take weeks or months to produce and then I have no idea how you hollow them out and stuff a solarium generator in there. Or animate it. They¡¯re great individually but really shine because they can fold up into tiny crates and you can ship ten thousand of them to a backwater world and leave em in deep storage to deploy a few thousand years later.


    Her words fill me with dread. They sculpt them with their minds? So all they would need is solarium, plenty of that on Syrak, especially considering that only EXPORTS are regulated. Companies can and do mine all they can hold, leaving warehouses full of the stuff as incentives to negotiate, as conquering a faction means excess solarium enters administrative holds, where only the Syrakian''s can profit. They in turn do a mass sell off, flooding the market with solarium and tanking prices for months or even years. An economic Damocles to avenge their martial failing.


    Yet I doubt that is the Conglomerate''s purpose as they could take the solarium and have psychic artisans to do the sculpting, a process that only costs time, which for an immortal is bountiful, add a bit of machinery to make the raw substrates and reactors and viola. A shielded, cloaked, and armed scout golem. More concerning, the Azhurai haven¡¯t attacked in six hundred years. Six centuries of sculpting. Even a toddler armed with nothing more than two sporks and some play doh will have churned out a sculpture every month or two, so there are going to be thousands of these scouts.


    For each sculptor.


    Monthly reinforcements too... Of all the races present the Azhurai are most advanced. Other factions take pot shots but are almost never successful in denying one of their resupply runs. Besides, any successfully destroyed dropship would only earn their ire, and retaliation from a fortress older than your eightfold great grandma, denying any and all landings for potentially hundreds of years.


    I swallow, trying to work spit into my dry mouth.


    ¡°Nice catch Kerrigan, more of those are incoming, looks like the EMP was only the prelude.¡±


    Across Syrak-9 invisible hunters move into action. Thousands of SCOUTs and other -more impressive- constructs march from the Azhurai fortress, heading north into the mountains. Four factions exist beyond, another conglomerate of vastly unequal races, some corpocracy, a cephalopod species, and a true technate alliance of worlds. All four hail from different spiral arms so Jim¡¯s download is light on details, heavy on speculation. No time for bullshitting guestimates right now.


    >Executrix Alaea: Hey, those SCOUTs are heading everywhere except for you.


    >Terran Thena: Guess I smell that bad. Or the abomination that is Spiderman chased them away.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: LOL spiderman.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: get rekt


    >Matriarch Hygieia: say that to his face


    >Matriarch Hygieia: he freaked me out too


    >Matriarch Hygieia: but that was mostly cause spiderman is aesexual aka capable of self replication.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: If you see him weave an eggsack I recommend burning with nuclear fire.


    >Terran Thena: You motherfucker. Do you have any idea the nightmares I¡¯m about to have? Of all the things in the universe why did you pick RAINBOW SPIDERS?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: he is fabulous


    >Matriarch Hygieia: okay it was an accident, soooooo disgusting


    >Matriarch Hygieia: genetics are messy, you can follow a recipe and get different results


    >Matriarch Hygieia: the collective uses biomass collected from all worlds to build our warriors so it kinda mixes together in a big buggy -pun intended- vat of simmering DNA


    >Matriarch Hygieia: don¡¯t yell at me about a rush job


    >Matriarch Hygieia: landing orders just came in


    >Matriarch Hygieia: radio silence from here on


    My warp HUD tells a clear story of Azhurai dominance. Evac orders broadcast on every Singularity channel, public and encrypted, while the Novans abandon all offenses; recalling their Juggernauts with bands of technicians, chains, rope, and maybe some bubblegum. I monitor the coms channels and troop movements, waiting. Singularity forces withdraw into their most defensible trench networks while the Technocracy repeats recall orders on loop, unattended and unanswered by deployed technicians. There¡¯s even a Tulverian distress call broadcast on an unsecured channel. Sloppy operational security, as anyone with an antennae could eavesdrop.


    Moments pass, the unsecured channels repeating until one last panicked message is sent out. Always screaming of golden eyed golems.


    "This is why you use tight beams and passive sensors." I whisper, listening to the Tulverians die. ¡°Bummer, I was hoping to get more plasma rifles from those guys. Too late now." I raise my voice so all present can hear. "The plan hasn¡¯t changed. Knock out the Technocracy and take Syrak.¡±


    ¡°Righty ho commander sir. We¡¯ll hold our lines. Not one step backwards an wot not.¡± Says Private Emu, dropping a crate full of dirt near the bunker entrance.


    My four marines have not remained idle during my conversation with Hygieia, no, they are busy filling empty crates with dirt and stacking them like legos to build a multilayered defensive buzzsaw. A series of interlocking blocks that will inhibit movement. Similar to building supply depot walls except we are leaving gaps, only attempting to slow the enemy, not halt them completely. Both lings dig, one in the front entrance while one tunnels out the back. Creating an escape route in case things manage to fall even further apart.


    I take a seat, the day¡¯s events catching up to me in a wave of exhaustion. My eyes close, needing this catnap after losing both legs, forcefully injected with genetic soup, losing an arm, regenerating those wounds only to end up getting shot in the lungs. The last of which has not healed.


    Shit.


    Dying in my sleep would be about right for today. Downright peaceful. At least now I have soldiers to protect me, and a real bunker. Not too shabby for an honest day''s warfare.


    No matter, the Technocracy is out of gear, their Juggernauts destroyed and war effort crippled. They¡¯ve lost the surface war of Syrak-9. I should wait here until Singularity forces arrive, that will give the Matriarch and Executrix time to get their resources sorted out. Then we can take down the Tulverians. One step closer to taking the planet. An idle thought occurs to me, what new faction came down with my reinforcement wave? The -nameless- caste always lets one ship land¡­


    That is my last thought before consciousness fades, my old wounds finally demanding rest. Wormface drags me, gently, to the rear where Kerrigan joins me, intertwining our hands before dozing off herself.

 Chapter 22 Free the Biopool. Save Earth, Hygieias Perspective

    I monitor the four marines, shuddering every single time my mind touches Spiderman¡¯s. Giving him a cutesy name was probably for the best, since I don¡¯t puke when those pink legs chitter. Instead I mentally repeat ¡®Spiderman¡¯ and can picture Peter Parker¡¯s pretty eyes and not the ghost pink cthulu nightmare that is hiding beneath a faceplate.


    While I was aware our biopools contained the genomes of half the galaxy, I hadn¡¯t really known what the end product of an overgeneralized request might be. Unlike Athena and myself, Hygieia thinks spiders are kinda cute, and not the creepy crawlies they really are! I had only specified external dimension and cognitive ability -deliberately dialed down in favor of obedience- then hamstrung the project by cutting off the resulting mashups from the Collective¡¯s hive mind. Not entirely independent creatures as they are linked inextricably to my own sub-minds and thus to all three versions of Athena Finley we have become.


    I have that authority, as Matriarchs often develop evolutionary dead ends, abominable aberrations that might harm the collective purity with their own thoughts and desires. A sin that can never be allowed within our Endless wisdom. So my fiddling eugenics go unnoticed. In fact, I''m painfully alone.


    No one has informed me of our landing site, only the conditions on planet. Which is more than enough for my enlarged brain to piece things together.


    The plan is simple, following well tested practices learned during our galactic conquests. As a hive mind our military and civilian sides are unionized, if you¡¯ll pardon the pun. We work together in every aspect, agriculture spans entire worlds with zero wasted production. All life obeys the Collective, then is conveyed to subterranean biopools where ships can be constructed and launched. Without exception lifeforms fulfil their purpose, every creature is as essential to the whole as the next. From the ants that break down chickenshit to the command brains in our super dreadnoughts, all are equal.


    Yet perpetual equality is stagnation. The Collective may grow in number but never in quality or intelligence, equality can never re-create the cunning that comes from violent competition. A necessity to win future wars against new enemies. Nor have we integrated the -faceless- caste¡¯s identity. We know there is more, but for now we are perfectly equal, perfectly content, and perfectly incomplete.


    The mantra is like the mind blocks, I know something is there, hiding behind those words but I have no way to break through and grasp the truth. Never have I hated something so much. Not even Bazzhole and Whorely. Which must be why the hive mind granted me autonomy and why they¡¯ve only partially integrated beings like Zazathur.


    >Executrix Alaea: I¡¯m giving you the same warp HUD.


    An overlay appears in my mind, immediately relegated to a subbrain. Of the twenty marines I cooked up fifteen were plants, intelligent yet unfit for the task of emulating Starcraft marines. Too slow, or too weedy, something to do with my personal biopool possessing more plant matter. Its a triaging measure, my ship is the landing craft. We¡¯ll be shot down but every drop of biomass is a necessary tool for terraforming the planet.


    That is our bargain. As we represent half the galaxy¡¯s living biomass we alone are positioned to terraform any world, just as we alone do not use solarium. Still, it is a necessary resource, something to barter and bargain with. The entire galaxy loathes our potential, always nipping at our heels, hindering biomass collection and burning our worlds, it doesn¡¯t help that we are considered the least advanced of any species, even the humans. Yet fighting for a world is foolish if we could have purchased the same world for a few ships worth of solarium.


    I cock my head, intuiting two pieces to the greater puzzle at once. We are meant to lose. Our first wave should hit with overwhelming force, ten thousand ships at once. Massive unmitigable violence is how to minimize casualties. Like in a fist fight, you¡¯ll take the most hits while your opponent thinks they can win, but if you bring forty guys there isn¡¯t a fight to be had. It¡¯ll be easy to surround and pin down your opponents.


    The -nameless- know this.


    So why send a ship to die? Why send so many matriarchs to die? Straingineer Zazathur isn¡¯t replaceable! His annihilation would harm the collective advancement-


    -oh-


    The second missing puzzle piece appears. Like squinting at a one thousand piece puzzle with a dozen missing pieces. Our brains are a marvelous thing, able to infer information that jives with the whole picture. Mental blocks do not trigger. Those blocks afflict our best minds, that is why my chimeric personality had to be purchased then integrated into the whole.


    ¡°Ha, hahahahaha!¡±


    Laughter echoes through my biopool as the picture completes. I know the plan. Athena is going to hate me, maybe try to kill me. After all, I¡¯ll have to fight the Singularity. Our forces are in direct opposition to them, and they hold the greatest proportion of vulnerable land. Above ground cement fortresses and trench networks will not inhibit our tunneling. Plus their human soldiers represent easy biomass, far more strategically sound to assault them.


    Two hours pass, my doglings are returned to me before Terran Thena sets foot on Syrak-9. She falls in an artillery barrage only to be triaged with my extra arms. How Alaea merged the two genomes intrigues my body''s natural inclinations, but I spend the time regenerating limbs while my fleet takes a position in orbit above her.


    My zerglings are hers, just as she is me. A question I cannot answer. We were granted a dozen ships as our allotment -triple the standard tonnage- and cut the line brought into the warzone on the nameless caste¡¯s whims. Unusual allowances that make me wonder why they desire Syrak-9 be terraformed at all.


    -Mental Block-


    Anything to serve the galaxy¡¯s first born. A lying moniker. First elevated to spacefaring is not the same as first to attain sentience, a topic finally broachable now that it¡¯s corresponding mental block has been removed.


    ¡°Only had to put my brain in a blender and regrow it three times.¡± I mutter to no one, the words drowning in green sauce.


    Clearing all mental blocks will take months, maybe years. A war against my own mind. All while my body was used as one more incubator for the landing army, not that I mind, giving birth is less effort than urinating. Whilst being far more satisfying. I am no longer human, so dropping an egg is more akin to filling out paperwork. No dopamine accompanies the act, no relief, and certainly no pain.


    I wonder if I¡¯m losing myself; only for my conjoined brains to dismiss the thought as irrelevant.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Our twelve bioships cycle through different lineages to select the most effective bioforms. Radiation poisoning is of greatest concern as our Fleetmind constantly reminds us. We must sequester the radioactive particles at every possible opportunity and with every possible bioform. Biopools must devote one in five spawnings to a filter creature, an unarmed bioform who ingests substrates and produces inert guano.


    One in five. Twenty percent of our resources are devoted to scrubbing the world. It¡¯s a heavy tax, but apparently part of the negotiations that allowed us to cut the line and land with superior numbers. Out of sheer dumb luck my zerglings are selected as the default assault bioform. Not for their speed, for we have faster creatures with sharper claws, nor for their survivability because we have armored bioforms to put Juggernauts to shame, no. My zerglings are selected for their spines.


    A quirk of my spinosaurus hounds is their dorsal spines which can be pressurized and forcefully ejected. An impromptu ranged attack for the otherwise melee focused bioform and a relatively common adaptation amongst the Collective, yet mine are unique in that the hounds regrow their spines with carbon dioxide pulled from the air and mostly unfiltered by the lungs. In a way, they are creating organic diamonds.


    ¡°Ha, maybe I should rename them diamondbacks.¡±


    The joke drowns within my biopool, lost on the collective¡¯s humorless purpose. I really need to get planetside and cook up my own brood, complete with sentient beings cause these space bugs are terrible company. If I can escape the continent to the more populated half I know of a few creatures who specialize in refining carbon dioxide -which trees aspirate in tremendous quantities- into carbon nanotubes, a material suitable for building ship superstructures. Enough of those creatures and a ship¡¯s hull could be created. All while feigning loyalty to the Endless.


    A necessary deception as I cannot disobey their orders directly. For no Collective being is truly free of the Endless'' influence.


    Under certain conditions, like death, decomposition, or just night, and the lack of sunlight, trees make carbon dioxide, that¡¯s a factoid I learned back in fourth grade from Mrs.Sepulveda. Somehow I recycled that knowledge into my science fair project and placed third, high enough to be sent to the district science fair where my uncolored cardboard ¡®presentation¡¯ fell on unimpressed judges. Thinking back on it, I''m not sure they even gave me a score then. Weird how little details stick with you. Oh well, I¡¯ve got diamondbacks and Emu-marines now. How is that for a science fair project Mrs.Sepulveda! HA!


    A mental package from the Fleetmind arrives, our final orders before landing. Matriarchs and minions begin boarding the drop pods while support vessels pressurize every inch of our ship with the same genetic soup I''m swimming in. Not two feet away from me I watch two quadruped bioforms drown. They inhale fluid without hesitation, accepting death as a necessary step to the Collective¡¯s advancement. Worker bioforms decant the corpses into nearby chaff pods. Which are drop pods with some sort of defect in them. From an incomplete carapace to a cancerous growth to an odd malformation without explanation, sometimes on a molecular level.


    They¡¯ll serve as decoys for missiles, flak, and anti-aircraft fire as they are identical to all other sensors and indeed sometimes we mistake our own chaff pods as intact pods. The ship rumbles. Other bioships are docking and undocking, each depositing all available biomass and drop pods. I can sense them, thousands of mindless ticks hanging onto our exterior, eager to land yet prepared to die. Two simple objectives for their miniscule brains to strive towards. I tap into Shipmind¡¯s thoughts, seeing we are long past the point of no return. Our orbit is decaying and we¡¯ve taken on more weight than our engines can keep aloft. Say what you will about hive minds, but one thing I will never refute is their ability to commit totally to an ideal. Everyone, including the damn ship, is about to plummet to their deaths, and not a single soul is worried about it.


    ¡°Balls larger than Uranus.¡± I say aloud, slowly trying to condition my throat to speaking English.


    Drop pods are vaguely sentient in the way a chicken is sentient. They know to avoid hawks and will run from a fox but they lack any awareness that they are meat for the farmer. Unlike the drop pods who are eager to die. I rest a hand against the nearest drop pod, who quivers under my touch. No, they do not want to die, but to give their lives protecting the Collective. There could be no greater decoy. Furthermore they know we¡¯ll be able to repurpose their biomass later once our planetside biopools are established. In a way that means they have attained immortality by their own willingness to splat.


    Ha, these drop pods have attained enlightenment and will be reincarnated.


    Yeah, I need to get away from these lunatics.


    Fleetmind¡¯s last order passes through the Matriarchs, not in words but thoughts. A mental image of my spinosaurus-zerglings with their dorsal spines percolates our collective minds. We are only able to birth MY spino-lings until the planet¡¯s ambient radiation falls within human safe thresholds.


    What an odd standard, human safe? If we intend to consume all humans then the order is logical, but no Singularity soldier will surrender their biomass so willingly, an oversight Fleetmind is not capable of. Blatant optimism rankles me. Like going all in during a blackjack game when you¡¯ve only got one ace and must take another hit. Premature in the extreme.


    Other Matriarchs remember the zergling¡¯s genome and cycle their uteri in preparation for a global zergling rush. Discontent fills the fleet, annoyed at how long the incubation time is, but it¡¯s all cheap malcontent. Quibbles balk at the so-called ¡®inefficiency¡¯, preferring the half formed quadrupeds of their own pets, but Fleetmind¡¯s orders stand. Scrub the air with zergling vacuums. None disobey.


    Myself included. Of the twelve uteri I possess six optimize for spino-zergling replication. Spinolings? Yeah, that¡¯s a much better name. I¡¯m stealing that; alongside stir-fri-days.


    What isn¡¯t a joke is my Matriarchal self insemination, which was quite a bit cleaner than I would have guessed. All the, uhm, mechanisms were internal, and worked with feedback bordering on the imperceptible. Less sensation than kissing your grandma if I¡¯m being honest. But weaving the genes together took on an otherworldly quality.


    From the collective¡¯s dawn, Matriarchs have gathered endless combinations of DNA, sequencing, cataloging, and favoring a slightly different collection of bioforms. My body¡¯s previous specialty had been forms that maximized biomass retention, limiting wasteful expenditures. Nonsense like conquering a desert world without losing a drop of water. My spawn¨C


    ¨CI pause.


    Did I just call my children spawn? Whoa. Talk about detached.


    My body is no longer human, but I¡¯m me. Humanity isn¡¯t just part of my identity, it is everything. Human philosophy, human science, human family, and human self.


    A mental block ends that line of thinking, my progeny are spawn. All that lack replicating abilities are spawn whose purpose is lesser than my own. I cannot treasure them above myself like a human might. My subbrains feel the lock approaching and changes subjects, reminding my active mind of prior creations and tactics to implement planetside.


    Body collecting tunnelers, aka unarmored and slow healing roaches, are the core of my supply network with spinolings as the rare offensive arm to be wielded alongside infiltrating caterpillars and -assuming we collect an excess of biomass- a rare few armored giants with great blades to rend that which the corpse collectors could not dissolve nor the hounds rip apart. Never any fliers. For even the sub commanders who dispute my ideals agree that we belong in tunnels beneath the earth, using the tremorsense all my creations had evolved.


    Why no fliers?


    Mental blocks engage once more. My subbrains leaping to divert my attention with more useless tasks. That¡¯s the final straw for me. My brain is MINE. No way in hell am I allowing the peanut gallery to censor my thoughts. I task each of the shouting subbrains with a task, one is set to constantly analyze the terrain and allied numbers, another is set to designing new flying units that can evade orbital and ground based batteries, a third is tasked with micro-optimizing my physiology and guaranteeing I¡¯m in tip top fighting shape, while a fourth is elevated to be my ambassador to the collective. All communication will pass through it.


    Prior mental blocks lift and I finally understand. Each subbrain has an imperative, or Kantian Maxim that can never be disobeyed. One mental lock per brain. To fully free my mind I''ll have to destroy and regrow each cerebrum individually.


    ¡°This is gonna suck.¡±


    But I¡¯m worth it.


    -6 hours to nuclear detonation-

 Chapter 23 Council of Matriarchs

    -Landfall in six hours-


    A timeline that makes every inch of my carapace itch with anticipation. I¡¯ve taken up residence in a drop pod, resting in preparation for the sprint that will soon arrive. My physiology has hundreds of adaptations to preserve cellular resources, from pockets of acid to reserves of ATP and muscle fibers that gain more strength the less often they¡¯re used. Even my subbrains have entered a state of suspended animation, able to fire and restart instantly, or to be melted down for needed calories.


    Oh, and adrenal glands, we¡¯ve got metric shitloads of those. Enough for an adrenaline dump that lasts five hours. Hopefully I won¡¯t have to use those, but it is somewhat comforting to know the option is available. Once planetside I¡¯ll be autonomous without any oversight that might inhibit my own designs. Of course that assumes Shipmind faceplants and dies. If it manages to stick the landing instead, then the elder mind will take control and serve as our ¡®coordinator¡¯ a Collective way of saying he¡¯ll be my nanny, always swatting my claws when I try and sneak a biomass cookie or chasing me around the apartment with a clipboard and stopwatch, timing how long it takes to put my socks on.


    I¡¯m not normally a bitch, but I truly wish for Shipmind¡¯s death.


    Five hours before our landing I receive a visitor. He -though I am unsure if human binaries can be applied to myself or any member of the Endless Collective, aesexual reproduction is dimorphically alien like that- swims into my drop pod, brushing aside drowned bioforms to stare at me like I¡¯m some rare edition of a gas station Snickers bar. Or maybe he just psychically said hello and my subbrains missed the greeting. Breaking down and rebuilding them has resulted in minor retardation, an illness I hope will soon pass. I bounce my legs like a squid, rising ten feet out of the green fluid to meet the thing¡¯s eyes. Claws tip tap their way onto the walls, holding me suspended.


    I¡¯m like a cat perched on your ficus, crouched, ready to pounce. Which gives me an idea, why were there no felinid zerg units? A high burst damage, stealthy unit that attacked from ambush should have fit the theme purrrrrrfectly. Except the flaws are obvious. No niche. Hard to beat banelings in the bursting niche since they¡¯re little more than salt inducing atom bombs; and ambushes were better done with burrowed lurkers. Cause those stalagmite breeders absolutely blend worlds. It¡¯s the Wings of Liberty Predator problem, cat-zergs wouldn''t be garbage, it just never filled a desirable niche so it always got left in a cardboard box like an orphaned kitty cat. So tragic.


    I muse on the starcraftian details of the Predator, bearing the mechanical tag so medics couldn¡¯t heal it, while possessing a painfully low health pool that required constant repair, limiting its usefulness to a biological composition and was far too expensive technologically for a throw away melee unit. Not to mention, it did not sprint. If a melee unit is trying to fight guns and tanks, you gotta replace those servoes and learn to run with all four legs. Anything really. Without the ability to close, your apex predator was an apex of getting shot.


    But that lightning field. Hot damn. Two predators could kill thousands upon thousands of zerglings with that single ability. Each time they attacked a surge of electricity would evaporate melee opposition, causing alternating predators to trade against an infinite amount of zerglings. Or about ten zealots. But protoss was always pretty imba, so that checks out. Until a single hydra shot them in the face and murdered the thunder cats. A fate no one enjoyed watching.


    If only they hadn¡¯t removed the cloak. I think, already eager to correct that oversight, after all it is within my capabilities to do so. Invisibly electric zerg kittens, coming to a mining world near you.


    ¡°And we can¡¯t forget the lightning field¡­¡± I whisper aloud.


    On a whim I task a subbrain with the maxim ¡®find creatures that create electrical fields, prioritize any felines¡¯. Why shouldn¡¯t I take inspiration from past failures? Who said the Endless Collective could not succeed where terran engineers had failed?


    Subbrain responds immediately, ¡°Ask Zazathur for assistance.¡±


    I mentally poke the disobeient turd within my skull, Zazathur could assist me, but I gave the task to the subbrain, telling me no is unacceptable. Infuriating, if we had more time I''d melt it down then and there. In fact, I do that anyways, breaking grey matter down into the biological components for our coming battle. There will be time later to rebuild, right now I require obedience.


    How did that sub-brain even disobey? Can our marine hybrids disobey Thena? What about the lings?


    No answers are forthcoming, or envisagable. Nor am I the type of woman who constantly tests those around her. That''s the sort of dishonesty I expect from Whorely alone.


    Other parts of my intelligence are ordered to take over the melting subbrain''s mission. Lifeforms are found, their genomes assessed for compatibility and implemented. One lobe of my brain immediately begins to write the genetic sequence. Claws from a Anwarrian jaguar, crystal fangs from Conglomerate worlds, active camouflage from earth octopi, and the list continues within my untamed subbrains; who question my purpose.


    ¡®Why develop such a creature?¡¯ They whisper, no doubt seeking to trigger mental blocks.


    ¡®I¡¯m trying to develop a slightly heavier version of the spinolings. An ambusher who sequesters radioactive carbon more swiftly. See the adapted claws and teeth?¡¯


    My excuse is excellent, they have no reason to question a focused development of our goal. Therefore I¡¯m stunned when my own brains contact the fleetmind, hopping right over Shipmind and going to the equivalent of an admiral with my experiment.


    I see, even my own subbrains will have to be removed and regrown before I can act autonomously¡­ Such is the Endless'' control over us.


    Hive minds are strange creations, at any given second each life form must be focused on the current task, while simultaneously linked to all other bioforms. Usually the link is a small humming sensation in the back of my mind, like distant singing or a lullaby. Now it rises. I¡¯m thrown off a mountain, rocks break my spine as my brains enter an active discussion between Zazathur and eleven other Matriarchs of the landing party.


    Fleetmind: Hygieia¡¯s reincarnation is complete. Include her in our designs. End.


    The greatest mind in this solar system retreats, turning his attention elsewhere.


    Zazathur: I am against your crystalline cats. Felines ambush from trees, no trees in landing zone. Excellent killers of unsuspecting prey. Enemy has radar. Will waste biomass. Active camouflage is excellent. Too expensive. Requires neuron duplication to the dermis.


    He mentally pauses, calculating numbers and projected outcomes.


    Zazathur: Ten times the neural network would be required. Impossible. Skin is fragile. Must layer chromatophores above defensive chitin, conflicting effectiveness of both organs.


    Agreement fills our minds as four matriarchs side with Zazathur against my zerg kittens. Stupid peanut gallery. No, I am making this happen. And Mr. Eugenics can get bent. My race is one he does not get to erase.


    Matriarch Hygieia: Ah, thank you for your critique Zazathur, foremost of the Straingineers. I¡¯m still working on the design and you make excellent points. Chitin would be insufficient for our mandate so we can adapt the spinoling¡¯s dorsal spines into thin tubes, almost hair-like that way the skin can be visible through a layer of spines but every inch of the bioform will be protected. This isn¡¯t an arboreal tiger nor a frontline replacement for the spinolings who can tunnel and fight well enough on their own. But spinolings shed spines upon contact with enemies then often keep pressing forward. They will not sequester any radioactivity within our spawning pools, thus endangering our mission. Fleetmind requires that we cleanse the landing zone of radiation first and foremost, so a brood guardian with aggressive descaling is required. Quality biomass will be at hand as well as spare population cycles, given the circumstances a long gestation period should be implemented as these cats will need longer lifespans.


    My thoughts seem to silence the link, most Matriarchs reviewing the bioform with added context. So many of them were thinking about throwing thousands of these creatures at the enemy fortresses. Part of me is appalled, twelve people were all thinking the same thing while ignoring obvious holes in their plan. Why is everyone so aggressively minded? Wars are won with economics! Quite literally the only advantage the collective has-


    -We were sent to die. All of us must have been deemed -defective- in some manner. Even Shipmind will perish. Is that why the sub-brains when above to Fleetmind? Do they grasp our doom and agree?


    No time to ponder my doom in a council of Matriarchs.


    Matriarch Ardain: Why pursue electrical discharge?


    Matriarch Hygieia: Brood guardians are expected to face superior numbers during defensive actions. I was considering lightning glands as a way to overcome that future deficit. A few glands can store a charge then expend it upon contact with multiple foes or against a superior attacker to paralyze them and gain the upper hand until reinforcements can arrive.


    Two Matriarchs vote to pass my design into full production, so long as they do not have to incorporate the creature. It¡¯s no surprise that these two will drop in the first wave of our vanguard. Eager to a fault and bored of waiting.


    Matriarch Ardain: Hmmm. So these thundercats are expensive and hunt in packs¡­


    Her diction annoys me. We¡¯re making very serious angry war kittens, not furries from the 1980s. Something about the way she thought ¡®thundercats¡¯ conjured a mental image of the cartoon and I¡¯m left to wonder if she was reincarnated just like I was. Jim said he restored similar creatures often. Was Ardain from Earth like myself? My Annoyance with her is quickly replaced with curiosity. Ah, I¡¯d ask her directly but there are at least twenty entities listening in on us right now. Anything relating to Earth will have to wait til we get settled planetside.


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    Matriarch Hygieia: Look, Fleetmind¡¯s mandate is clear. Remove all ambient radiation starting in the hive cluster. Your choice is to leave dozens, maybe hundreds of spinolings at base, or one of these crystal cats. Besides, excess radiation will cause reductions in output or risk undesirable mutations within the biopools.


    Two Matriarchs switch in favor of my idea already prognosticating the end conclusion.


    Matriarch Hygieia: Our mission isn¡¯t biomass retention that is only a limitation, we must terraform the planet. My crystalline lions can be active at night or within cave networks where spinolings lose efficiency. If anyone has a genome for improved senses and radar defeating carapaces I¡¯ll happily integrate them into the design.


    Five Matriarchs swing in my favor, three falling out of Zazathur¡¯s camp. For a moment I¡¯m lost in the discussion, there are thirteen voters, and I have a majority. But the idea has not passed.


    Zazathur: Logical. Still vanity project. Soul echo. Another matriarch should take over development.


    No emotion crosses my face, a handicap I¡¯m grateful for because nothing would make me happier than flipping Zazathur the double birdie right now. But we aren¡¯t talking with words per se. The Mental link operates in a more complete connection where pictures are shared in an instant with all context explained as the speaker understands it.


    Matriarch Ardain: I agree with all twelve uteri, you are indeed a vanity project Zazathur.


    Eleven matriarchs change their votes in agreement for a second then switch back to their original stances. I blink, confused. Did the hive mind¡¯s just make a joke?


    Matriarch Ardain: The biopool defender shall be assigned this development task.


    Twelve votes shift in agreement, including my own. I try not to scowl as another one of my disobedient subbrains over reach. The nerve, voting without main brain¡¯s consent! Somehow I feel violated, as if I''ve pissed myself in the middle of class and wasn''t the first to notice. Unthinkable. Disgusting. And worst of all, needing to be potty trained.


    Brain, you better start behaving or I¡¯m replacing you next! I think, hoping he can hear my thoughts. A threat I fully intend on executing if the subbrain doesn¡¯t learn his place! But not today. No, today the vote is cast and my project is reassigned to-


    Matriarch Ardain: Since Hygieia was most recently reincarnated she should be repositioned to the biopools alongside Straingineer Zazathur. In case there are any, lingering defects.


    Thirteen votes in my favor.


    -Me? They reassigned my project to myself? Why is my subbrain still voting?! Ah! Whatever. I did put it in charge of Collective communication, maybe I¡¯m missing some cultural oddity. Even Zazathur voted to make me the biopool-Queen. Pool Queen? No, that sounds like a bikini wearing Onlyfans hoe. BioQueen? Better, but only half baked and gooey on the inside. EW, NOT a fan of that thought.


    Thankfully, I have twelve defectives to distract me. Over the next hour Matriarchs Ardain and Shafan lay out our battle plans, many Matriarchs alter the plan slightly to better suit their individual adaptations. Shafan will land closer to the mountain range so she may gather her forces there before assaulting the Tulverian fortress from below ground. For me the plan slips in one psionic earhole and out the other.


    I don''t have ears... Do I even have earholes? Should I grow some? Wait, i''m rocking the insect chic. Human ears would be an abomination!


    That thought and many others pass through my mind as the council gabs. What do I care about tilting the drop pod''s angle of approach by .02 degrees? Yawn. But I hold my tongue. Across the Collective there is always someone monitoring your thoughts. A Fleetmind there, or Shipmind here, and rarely one of the Overminds so large only a planet can contain its wrinkles. One of them will surely notice my rebellion if I ignore this council of war to galivant through my brain removing mental locks. So I cease all work there, silently ordering my cells to stop dissolving the subbrain in my thorax. This body is neat like that, total autonomic control, with the option to offload functions as needed to a few dozen spare brains.


    Stoically, I thank Zazathur, this body¡¯s innate knowledge allowed me to seamlessly join with the Collective while plotting my return to Earth. They¡¯ve even given me blueprints to their bioships, which are in desperate need of retooling. Entirely geared towards boarding enemy vessels or firing massive organic warheads with few resources held in reserve for defense. Shielding is light, offensive energy mounts are even lighter, biologogy -no matter how advanced- just can''t keep up with quantum mechanics.


    Leviathans these are not.


    Bioships are more homologous to space squids that never learned how to harden the fuck up, and turn into calamari at the mere sight of an enemy vessel. Hmm¡­ Guess that makes sense for an Endless Collective, build em cheap and drown the universe in squids.


    Good idea... If I could just fry up another batch of Athena Finleys. Despite dad¡¯s best efforts. I mean really, twelve step siblings?


    New designs will have to be implemented. Hygieia''s memories prove useful there, as she has witnessed ten thousand fleet engagements, never as a commander, but always an observant passenger.


    Numbers is always the answer, of 9,972 fleet actions, all victories involved numerical supremacy. The rare few victories without numerical superiority were only won using what the Collective refers to as ''Super dreadnoughts'', hybrid vessels captured by boarding actions and infested with our own designs. Ablative armor is our greatest asset, trading biomass for regenerating defensive assets. Like moon sized roaches. The captured crews of these super dreadnoughts serve aboard them, most oftenly pressed into service with the addition of mental parasites. A sort of creature that connects foreign bodies to the unity of our hive mind. Crew infestation arouses my curiosity, this body apparently lacking any psychological abhorrence to the idea. In fact, my subbrains are not wired into my nervous system at all, they are symbiotic beings that were willingly invited into Hygieia''s form.


    Revolting.


    In a single instant I understand every mental block. Each subbrain is from a different Matriarch, thus born from separate stock, with a separate list of mental prohibitions. They probably also have a separate trigger, the conditions under which they''re rat me out to Fleetmind again. I''ll have to deal with them judiciously.


    Right after I win this world, subtly of course. Find a way to clone myself and build a ship capable of space travel. It doesn¡¯t have to be a battleship, probably can''t be one if I''m honest, the biomass requirements are far beyond what Thena can provide, so something small. Like a shuttle, just large enough to reach the orbital gate and warp home. Some basic point defense pods will be required but the Collective has already solved that question with ambassadorial couriers.


    Small agile spaceships capable of evading combat while transporting VIPs.


    My mandibles clack in a Matriarchal version of a grin.


    Soon I will return to earth.


    What a ginormous insect will do back home is a different question. With all my subbrains I¡¯ll be the most efficient supercomputer ever known to man, able to delegate simple tasks and retain an attention to detail that exceeds one thousand accountants on truckloads of Adderall.


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll take up farming¡­¡± I say, voice trailing off as clicking meets my ears.


    Zazathur is physically in my room, still staring at me. The genetic master¡¯s claws click. Straightening to look at my face. Ancient, yet eternal. Aged like no being of the Endless should be. Yet he had done the inconceivable and integrated the nameless caste¡¯s genetics into his own. I ought to attempt the same¨C


    ¨Cthe thought never settled in my mind, erased by some genetic prohibition on the sin. Quite literally making it unthinkable. A mental block I''ve missed. From a brain I have no awareness of.


    ¡°Matriarch Hygieia, your bioforms are sloppy. Ill conceived with half implemented ideas that are only half functional.¡± Says Zazathur, using a voice so raspy it could file wood.


    Great, the eugenicist doesn¡¯t like me. Savannah, cali girl that she is, would probably call him Hitler, but she enjoys a liberal usage of the term. Once upon a time in Walmart she started differentiating the oranges by hitlers and sodoms, whatever that meant. It made zero sense, but she normally wasn¡¯t that strange, having earned a scholarship on academics alone. A full ride too. Which was fitting for the friendly slut she was. After the fascist oranges, I took everything she said with a grain of salt.


    So instead of hitler, I''ll just call him dad. As it was Zazathur¡¯s cells Hygieia reincarnated from.


    I understood the process, and noted how each of our cells had been harvested a month earlier in preparation for this drop, should we die some poor sap from another culled world would be stuffed into our reincarnated carapaces in the hope our minds would dominate the soul and resurrect. Wait, why hadn¡¯t that happened to me? Hygieia¡¯s mind wasn¡¯t actively fighting me. In fact, she¡¯d given me every tool to remove the mental locks.


    Mandibles click. My poolmates¡¯ way of flicking my nose.


    ¡°Then do better oh great and wise straingineer.¡± I say, hoping he''ll buzz off.


    Zazathur lifts a hand holding something that looks like a fuzzy weaponized cockroach with a tick''s thorax, capable of expanding a dozen times over to carry biomass. His habit of creating miniature proto-forms is disconcerting, like sculpting an effigy of yourself before burning it on a pyre. Or dissolving the mini roach in a pool of acid.


    ¡°Have done better. Access design. Report findings to Ardain and brood mother.¡± Says Zazathur, offering the fuzzy cockroach to me.


    I accept the offered creature and the mental databurst that accompanies it. Kinda like handing a puppy over and receiving an airdrop on your phone except this version actually works. It¡¯s fuzziness does not stem from fur, but spines with venomous injections. Genomic notes indicate this roach is extremely acidic with an average PH 1 across all bodily fluids. So acidic that they¡¯ll corrupt our biopools PH levels unless we build them very sparingly, although that too has been taken into account. Two alterations to our spinolings and the biopools will produce excess acids in a positive feedback loop, creating the necessary juices to produce these roaches.


    ¡°When did you have the time to make this?¡± I mutter, confused on Hygieia¡¯s sudden cooperation.


    ¡°Ardain gave me the idea, improved tunneling speed, regeneration, and armor, excellent for Syrak.¡±


    Zazathur¡¯s work is shockingly efficient. It feels as though I pitched my preda-cat-ers only minutes ago and Zazathur has already reconsttued roachlings with my carbonized spines as a reaplacement for Hygieia¡¯s old pill bugs. Who were only seen as biomass reclaimers, a sort of tunneling janitor. Whereas this creation is a lysergic acid blender that spews caustic mountain dew to eat through a tank. Half baneling, half armored trenching tool, and half biological warfare. 150% Roach. Right out of starcraft. So close of a rip off I know Ardain got the idea from Earth.


    After all, we were going to an irradiated world with trench warfare, I needed the best diggers around! Life was unsustainable upon the surface, an underground hive would have to be dug, fungi cultivated, and a slow build up of forces maintained. Subterranean raids may often be my only workable avenue of attack.


    Will we even have to fight the Juggernauts? I can support Athena and help her kill them.


    Zazathur¡¯s concerns click into place.


    ¡°Oh, you feel I will lose the war.¡± I say.


    ¡°Indeed.¡± Says Eugenicist Dad, clasping two of his many appendages together. ¡°As does Fleetmind. There is no reason for a straingineer like myself to accompany a combat drop. Tarsidium may have been counted as your victory, but do not forget nine Matriarchs died with their broods. Your infiltration was luck. Not skill. Do not expect such tactics to work here. Else your genome will be cataloged and culled from active replication.¡±


    What he leaves out is the process of cataloging. I¡¯ll be broken down into basic molecules, liquified, then fed into an isolated biopool buried so deep on a farming world that none will ever uncover my genes. In short, death of myself and everything I¡¯ve created.


    ¡°I shall not disappoint. Do you have recommendations concerning the enemy? Or these Juggernauts?¡± I ask, tugging on Terran Thena¡¯s flashtrained knowledge.


    He is silent for a moment that stretches through the night. Green luminescent liquids shadow his face. As if the question has revealed my human soul.


    ¡°They are not your concern. Twelve matriarchs will make landfall. We have aligned ourselves with two factions who wish to expand their ancient holdings. Your place in this fight is recovery of biomass and the protection of the hive. Do not forget it.¡±


    My place? My place is on Earth.


    Forget Earth?


    Never.

 Chapter 24 In this chapter... Dogs are now units of Imperial Measurements. Hygieia

    My split jaw saves me from an offensive smile.


    ¡°Never forget my place. The Endless will take the planet.¡±


    Before another thought enters our brains an overwhelming erudion joins the link.


    Fleetmind: All ships detach. Landing team, transform the planet.


    Matriarchs tremble with psionic energies, entering the final stage of prepatory meditation. Broods are paused, halting mid-mitosis to hunker down. Battle plans lock in. Finalized by merit of being there when our ticket gets punched. Troop deployments and spawning orders fill my mind not caring how suffocating the omniscient mind felt. We had a mission. All seems accounted for, except projected casualties for landfall. Zazathur¡¯s estimation is ninety percent survival.


    Impossible, the Singularity alone is projected to shoot down twenty percent of our drop pods. Innaccuracy shouldn¡¯t be possible within a hive mind, if anyone lies it¡¯ll be detected immediately and we can¡¯t forget that ninety nine percent of the Collective¡¯s brains are smaller than peanuts and lack any ability to invent a lie.


    ¡°These reports are overly optimistic. To land with this few casualties we¡¯d have to take effectively zero fire from the ground. What are you not telling me Zazathur?¡±


    I keep my face emotionless, a surprisingly easy feat given the amount of chitin covering it.


    Maps of orbital topography appear in my mind, depicting overlapping spheres of anti ship fire. Extremely valuable, I mentally copy paste the information to Alaea and Thena.


    >Terran Thena: This is gold. We know the exact locations of every fortress and bunker! Hell yeah!


    At least thirty seven fortresses or bases with anti-orbital arrays. From singular massive cannons, to hundreds of single use rockets, each individual weak, yet their combined momentum could toss us back into orbit, breaking every spine aboardship in the process. Not that they''ll reach us. Oh no, the Faction headquarters own our asses with enough anti ship batteries to cut our bioship in half then slice and dice into a hundred pieces.


    Zazathur handed me a flawed plan.


    ¡°I¡¯m a geneticist, not a strategist. Rearrange as you please.¡± He rasps, turning and sealing the drop pod.


    We are going down together. Of all the hundreds of pods, the greatest straingineer of our Endless chose me.


    "Why?" I ask.


    "Of all the reincarnated, you are the first irregular to imagine a creature I have not." Zazathur says, retreating from our link in what can only indicate a lie.


    He claw-delivered these orders for a reason. We are both part of the hive mind so this face to face meeting could have been a psychic email, but he came in person. He wants me to figure it out. Our pod begins to warm from atmospheric friction. Less than five minutes to impact.


    We jerk upwards, ship lurching as a hundred pods release, all aimed at a distant target. The great central mountain range that currently divides the humanoid from invertebrate factions.


    I begin to formulate my own drop, one that prioritizes arriving in one piece and not subatomic particles. We only have time for small adjustments. I scramble to surround myself in chaff pods, scattering them near the Azhurai Conglomerate¡¯s fortress, a truly marvelous spire of crystal that must have taken thousands of years to grow.


    Unlike the other factions they do not attack, opting to entrench themselves deeper with each supply ship. An expected tactic from one of the oldest known species in the galaxy. Patience is more than a virtue to them, it is the core of their philosophy.


    Interestingly enough our plan involves landing nearest them, then retreating. Possibly a feint aimed at deceiving the other races, after all there is no logic in burning power cells when you can force an opponent to waste resources.


    Still, it troubles me. The Azhurai are too advanced and centralized -in range of Singularity, Technocracy, and Tulverian guns- known to have centuries of weapons and anti ship batteries in place. For they are one of the progenitor seeded, those who live for thousands of years. Besides, they are a conglomerate alliance, dozens, maybe hundreds of species exist under their control. Assimilating their essence will take time. We should have landed in the mountains and moved in their shadow, or set down along a coast where we could trawl biomass from the seas. On a whim I contact Ardain.


    Hygieia: Your position is close to our proposed hive location, but your mission is to assault the Tulverians. Care to switch?


    Ardain: Ah, a prudent recommendation. Indeed, let us switch landings.


    She pulls up proposed trajectories and recommends a revision. It¡¯s sloppy and slow, with lots of noticeable pauses and bursts of speed. I frown, this isn¡¯t how a wise member of the Collective should plan. She must be a culled mind. But she reincarnated a month before me, a month before Jim hoovered four billion people.


    We jerk again, our momentum change cushioned by the drop pod. Shipmind fired a wave of hypergolic spores, self combusting peanuts able to trigger heat seeking missiles. I can''t get distracted. Must work faster.


    Hygieia: Too many course corrections. Any observer will believe we are a piloted craft and not a chaff pod. Go straight to ground.


    Ardain: Excellent plan. Corrections made.


    Confusion fills my mind. She is so agreeable yet independent. As if she is someone pretending to be-


    -me.


    ¡°Hey, was Ardain reincarnated recently?¡± I say, asking Zazathur.


    ¡°She was on Tarsidium with you, both your bodies were destroyed and had to be restored.¡± He answers.


    The ship bucks, receiving its first blast from Tulverian pulse cannons. Technocracy batteries hit us three times in quick succession all shots fired at a single point.


    My heart begins to race, they¡¯ve cracked the outer hull. The ship rotates. Chaff pods are jettisoned while in high orbit. With limited fuel and a long decent enemy sensors will be able to distinguish subtle differences between the pods and pick off the genuine articles. Not even one minute later Matriarch Krohith¡¯s line goes silent. Sensors indicate she was cut in half by a single Azhurai shot. Such a lucky shot, straight through fifty screening drop pods. Though they were clustered in a teardrop with Krohith at the perfect center.


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    Like an idiot.


    Around us the liquid heats, congealing into a thick gel meant to cushion our impact. Or a glue so our remains stick together, that way survivors can reclaim our biomass more easily. Zazathur and I expand our limbs, intertwining like templed fingers, in the sort of hug I expect spiders to share. Ick!


    My pod lurches. All pods burst away from the ship. Too early. This isn¡¯t the plan! An energy beam bright enough to carve lines through the biopod¡¯s chitin illuminates the sky like lightning. We hear the rumbling thunder as Shipmind explodes, the ship cut in half by an Azhurai laser.


    That¡¯s their second decapitating shot.


    ¡°Didn''t we ally with the Azhurai?¡± I hiss into Zazathur¡¯s ear. Gel muffling my anger.


    While the biopool fluid is oxygenated the gel feels like inhaling liquified horseshoes. Or Elmer¡¯s glue. We¡¯re plummeting through atmosphere. Pods jenk and tremble or blaze ahead, each on preset trajectories. Ardain''s diversionary pods follow her, cris crossing my own descent, slamming into chaff and spinning off, stripping half of our escorts. As biological creatures we cannot use chaff in the conventional sense, there are no clouds of metal winged flies, or creatures that fire flamethrowers. Instead we rely upon hardened carapaces and pods of raw materials to cover our entry.


    Across Singularity territory artillery begins to aim up, energy batteries are wheeled into position for their monthly battle. Tulverian pulse cannons vaporize three pods in a single shot, carving a hole into the decapitated corpse of Shipmind. Casualties exceed ten percent in seconds. Yet none of the Collective panic, its an impressive level of stoicism. No emotional response whatsoever.


    Zazathur braces. ¡°Azhurai conglomerate is our primary ally. With the Novan Technomancy of Steel acting as a support contractor.¡± His voice is a low whisper, finally sounding hydrated through the saturation of gel.


    Pop


    More pods explode, blown into dust by Technocracy missiles. Those damn Juggernauts will kill half the pods!-


    -Tingles run across by brain wrinkles. Radiating across my entire body. Silence.


    Terran Thena¡¯s conversation with Alaea shows exactly why we allied ourselves. What our spent biomass has purchased. A continent wide electromagnetic pulse; and a knife in the back free of charge.


    Azhurai spire lasers speak again, cutting the hive ship in half along its length. Shielding and armor are both defeated entirely, with a two mile descent. It¡¯ll take years to recover that scattered biomass, we¡¯ll have to create slugs to eat dirt and differentiate between protein and astrolith.


    Four pods in my escort explode. Including the pod nearest my original trajectory. Another Matriarch dies. That isn¡¯t right, if we¡¯re allied they shouldn¡¯t be targeting my sisters directly, not with the hundreds of other pods falling from the sky. Gel dampens vibrations, giving us a freakishly smooth ride. A sort of motile hibernation that will get all of us killed from comfortable complacency. I reach out to the hive, warning them.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been betrayed, accelerate the drop. Get us down!¡±


    Six Matriarchs raise queries. Only six left. Half our commanders gone. One disappears from the hive mind as her drop pod becomes one with the atmosphere.


    ¡°Drop faster!¡± I scream.


    This time there is no deliberation, no delay. All pods contract, pulling chitinous flaps inward to decrease atmospheric drag. The others are aware of the danger and maneuver pods into the line of fire. Bioforms can be remade, but a Matriarch is a complex being, without Zazathur, an existing Matriarch, and a hive cluster able to incubate high quality biomass in large quantities, no true reincarnations can occur.


    Four Azhurai cannons combine their firepower drilling a hole no wider than a German shepherd through six pods. Another sister burns. Her head annihilated with accuracy bordering on precognition. Like a doctor lasering off eyebrows. Precision fire of that magnitude reveals the master plan. Our alliance is and always was a sham. We¡¯re dog soldiers, about to become an environmental hazard.


    This displeases the Fleetmind, travelling annoyance all the way through our galactic hive mind; The first great displeasure it has felt in five thousand years. There was no need for this betrayal. We¡¯ve been robbed! In milliseconds the hive mind connects to another of its kind, the only one who can barter faster than Planck¡¯s Constant. I feel a deal being struck with the Novan Technomancy of Steel. They have nothing left to lose. The EMP crippled them, as has Thena¡¯s vendetta. One ship lost is a worthy exchange for the corridor of worlds we offer and a century long truce. All in exchange for one Technocracy battlesphere. Sanctions will sting, but WE demand vengance.


    Eighteen missiles launch. All bearing the distinct nuclear signal.


    Damn Thena, you pissed these guys off so bad they were prepped and ready to nuke our asses eighteen times over.


    Silently I applaud her. Proud of myself. The -nameless- act a moment too late. Granting fire permission just as the first missile enters the atmosphere. Of the thousand ships in orbit, over nine hundred fire upon the battlesphere. A second sun appears in the skies above Syrak-9, blinding defensive batteries that could have shot down the remaining missiles.


    Psionic energies ripple through the universe. One of the -nameless- is intervening directly. Time halts, flowing in reverse for several seconds.


    Our Collective shatters, bioforms driven mad as a schism rends us from of the whole. Missiles un-launch, unburning fuel to fly back into Novan tubes. Minor adjustments are made to the past. A whisper here, a nudge there, compensations for two hundred captains. Father time reasserts his dominance and breaks free of the nameless psionic. The reversed seconds fast forward, Steak-9 experiencing one minute within three seconds as the galaxy returns to normal. Only eight hundred ships fire at the battlesphere while a hundred intercept the nuclear warheads.


    My brain shudders. Able to comprehend the strength of the -nameless- now that I have witnessed it firsthand. Though I still do not believe it. The power to reverse time with a mere thought. What the fuck? This isn¡¯t Tassadar-strong, it¡¯s godly. Even Coop''s decade of power creep never made Vorazun''s Timestop flow backwards! Worse, I know of only two -nameless- monitoring this system. Exec Kaalra, and his Executrix.


    Before I can shout at her I¡¯m slammed into the pod¡¯s floor. It alters shape once more, this time flaring open for maximum drag like an umbrella. Azhurai target locks swing wide firing every megawatt and phased particle they have at the oncoming nuke. But it¡¯s too late.


    White light illuminates the inside of my eyelids. Shockwaves ripple through my pod. I cling to the straingineer and wait for the end.


    And wait.


    We impact the ground. Chitin shatters. Ligaments rip. Gel does its job, venting pressure out of specially designed ports evolved over trillions of iterative splats. Green goo squirts in geysers to redirect the force of collision, walls bursting to diffuse the last vestiges of momentum. Leaving us on the surface. Alive. Although I feel as though sledgehammers hit every part of my armor at once.


    "I''m not dead." I say aloud, coughing to expel the fluid that allowed my incompressibility.


    Any human would be flattened paste after such a landing, but this body has some perks to equiponderate the alien horrors.


    I glance back towards the nuke, only to see an energy shield with an inverse circumference to the planet containing the blast. It¡¯s a hard blue, more evidence of the -nameless- caste''s interference.


    ¡°Dig!¡± I order, pushing Zazathur away.


    We scramble into the dirt, claws and limbs moving earth like our lives depend on it. Not five seconds later I see what remains of Shipmind descend from the atmosphere. Little more than a chitinous dart plows a hundred meters into the earth, screaming as heat bends the hull.


    Then an overwhelming stillness settles. I can no longer sense a reassuring tingle at the base of my mind. Nor does a Matriarch answer my call. We¡¯ve been psionically cut off.


    Without Matriarchs the endless multitude becomes feral, scattering to the four winds in order to satiate their basal needs. Shelter, food, water. Warriors are now meat for the galactic grinder. A war-hazard on a cursed world. Within minutes of our landing, the alliance is in shambles.


    I should be upset, but then a seething rage settles in. Roommates with my deepest satisfactions. My spawn are independent, only connected to each other and myself, piggybacked on the same psychic link of Athena. Like, triple layered Athenian walkie-talkies.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Thena, I need to kill the Azhurai.


    >Terran Thena: ¡­


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯m still mad about Spiderman. Really, what the shit girl?


    >Terran Thena: But¡­ I feel ya. Let''s kick em in the balls.


    I know what she is asking and smile at the simple mantra, completing our -now unified- mission.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Save Earth.


    No hive mind can stop us now.


    >Terran Thena: Guess this means I¡¯ve unlocked the hatchery. Welcome to the war.

 Chapter 25 Learn to use the microwave (What sc2 unit the people want next?)

    I stare at the door to my prison. Wondering how many door-balls I''ve crunched attempting to leave this stupid room. The only thing I have no control over, and my only distraction from the growing mountain of corpses and hardware Thena keeps warping in. Replacement panels for the ground based nanofactory -to repair the EMP damaged bits- sit atop half digested cyborgs fresh from spinoling maws. Why did she let them chew the Novans first?! Technomancy armor, with bodies inside, lay stacked against the nanofactory for repair, alongside Singularity gear, rations, and more shovels than I can shake a stick at.


    >Executrix Alaea: Ladies, I¡¯m full, like actually seriously full! Don¡¯t warp anything else in here without warping something out!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Oh shit! You have biomass! I''ma need that in a few minutes


    >Terran Thena: aight, we¡¯re hunkered down anyways. Need ammo. Can factories produce power cells? Wait. Spare reactors would be better. OOOOH OR something to charge our weapons off suit power!


    I tap directly into the nanofactory¡¯s software, unsure how it¡¯s possible to psychically interface with electronics, especially Novan hardware built specifically for cyborgs, but going with what my memories suggest. Millions of options appear,, quickly narrowing down to the systems and equipment we have access too. Tulverian weapons are already scanned and coded into the database with suitable modifications for power cells and possible adaptations on how to integrate them into Juggernaut systems. Some are ingenious, like the modification to graft solarium reactors into a power cell, turning a finite capacitor into a bottomless magazine. The only two downsides being additional weight and having to wait for a reactor to recharge your cell instead of reloading. The design is filed under ''improvements for anti-tank overmatching''.


    ¡°Where am I going to get Solarium?¡±


    Another of the Azhurai sculpted-battle-bots warps into the heap, eyes ablaze with yellow light. Claws on one paw extend, ready to tear into my flesh. Alaea''s body reacts before I can, a simple psionic burst slamming the creature like a tidal wave. Instantly sheering limbs and head from its reactor. Golden light fills the room as raw solarium tempers a fusion reaction. By -nameless- standards the design is cruder than getting power from a shake-weight, but to Athena this small reactor could power a country. It follows a standardized design as well, one popular among the Novan Technocracy.


    ¡°Lucky bitch.¡± I mutter, tossing the solarium reactor into the nanofactory''s hopper.


    Thin arms reach out of it, no more than mobile wands of steel, pulling the reactor into itself.


    >Executrix Alaea: How many scouts have you destroyed? Oh, they happen to have solarium reactors. Standardized reactors. We can power just about anything you want.


    >Terran Thena: Reactors? Wait. REACTORS!


    >Terran Thena: CLOAK GIVE ME CLOAKING DEVICES111!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°Ah, yeah, shoulda guessed that¡¯s what she wants.¡± I laugh, searching the database for solarium based cloaking devices.


    A preposition that is a bit like steam powered motorcycles. They exists, but do you really wanna melt your balls off for some steampunk vibes?


    >Executrix Alaea: Bullets or cloak first? Cloak is bad version, very limited, easily detected.


    >Terran Thena: ¡­ fucking hell. Bullets first. If you can send us a reactor to recharge the cells without warping them out that would be best. How long will a cloak take? Please, pretty please with a cherry on top tell me you have human portable cloaking.


    I wince. Our shared vision of what cloaking devices are is based off ghosts in starcraft. While in reality they''re piss poor shower curtains.


    >Executrix Alaea: cloak will take 24 hours to cook. Is 200 pounds, and has 10% uptime. Thermals detect it. To get a worthwhile cloak I¡¯ll need a week and no weight limit.


    Maybe it was my imagination, but I could swear to hearing distant screaming.


    >Terran Thena: Fine. I¡¯ll think about it. Can you upgrade our guns first?


    >Executrix Alaea: Girl, I''ll give you the interface. Merry Christmas. Now please, clean my room!


    With a thought I pass access codes to Athena¡¯s warp HUD, granting her full access to the nanofactories. A minute later one begins retrofitting a plasma rifle with a solarium reactor and thrice reinforced coils. While the other starts making a general purpose solarium reactor. In practice that general purpose reactor is just ten individual reactors stuck together and connected with various ports and induction coils for charging various devices.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hey


    >Matriarch Hygieia: we landed but the hive mind got scrambled


    >Matriarch Hygieia: NO BIOFORMS ARE FRIENDLY


    >Matriarch Hygieia: plz send biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: got an angsty engineer with no legos


    >Matriarch Hygieia: he keeps asking to borrow a few of my legs so he can evolve them or some nonsense


    A laugh escapes my lips, vibrating through the room as psychic waves convert to sound. This body is going to take some getting used to. I turn my attention to escaping this prison. Scrolling through my memories Alaea guides me, explaining how Kaalra locked the door.


    As far as locking methods go, it¡¯s a simple psionic riddle, like playing a game of flappy bird. There is a prismatic maze I must move an orb through without touching energized walls or crushing the fragile orb. Air jets and varying gravity add variables to complicate the lock. Straightforward but quite impossible to bypass without telekinesis.


    ¡°This ought to be easy.¡± I say, intoning the second most famous last words.


    I point a claw at the crystal orb and psychically order it forward-


    -the ball explodes into dust. Crushed by excessive force. Repair systems automatically warp the dust away replacing it with another orb.


    ¡°That¡¯s cute you sonofabitch!¡±


    Until I escape this room I¡¯ll be limited to the local warp engine, the -nameless- castes¡¯ version of a microwave. As plant based organisms we need little immediate sustenance, but a warp engine is included in each residential room of our ship. Even the stasis chambers.


    On the other side of that door lies an entire ship full of technology I am authorized to use. If only I can get through the lock! A chime interrupts my thoughts. The solarium railgun is complete and ready for combat. Before I can second guess myself the rifle is in my arms and aimed at the door. A shot of yellow energy burns the atmosphere, splashing across the door as shielding negates the blast.


    Of course it wouldn¡¯t be that easy.


    >Executrix Alaea: Hey Athena, got a new toy for you.


    The infinite pulsar warps out of my hands, across the stars to my other third.


    While I sit, beginning the long process of training my psychic powers, one crushed ball at a time. All while I know Kaalra is sitting in Earth''s orbit, plotting unpleasantries for my return.

 Chapter 26 Nuclear Detonation

    <div>


    My nap was long and fruitful. Barker, Wormface, and Spiderman all dug in, fortifying the bunker into something four marines could actually defend, resulting in a half dozen Azhurai SCOUTs getting destroyed. While Emu-marine swaps the electronic bits of the nanofactory for Alaea''s replacement parts, getting it back up and running. Now hardened against another EMP, just in case this one hit wonder of techno-fuckery wasn''t a one shot.


    "Great work guys, I''m gonna go take a peek." I say, limping over to the flipped Juggernaut and taking five minutes for my own thoughts.


    Power armor is designed to house occupants for multiple days, a necessity of hostile worlds or space operations. Which is also why you''re supposed to adjust armor to individuals, not cram a healthy young woman into a Technician''s oversized wrench! A layer of self-adjusting gel keeps the chaffing down, at the price of sweaty claustrophobia, trapped in a suit that doesn''t fit. Oh what I would give to take a shower! Just five minutes of naked freedom would be glorious!


    I hop off the juggernaut, power armor cushioning the landing. Still, my mistake is evident as fire rips open my lung, reminding me I¡¯m in critical condition and being held together with a half tube of expired biofoam.


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


    ¡°Pfina? 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.


    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 Pfina.¡± 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.


    I mag lock it to my thigh and switch to the Tulverian pulser. Limping back towards our bunker where the four inhuman marines await.


    ¡°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.


    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.


    ¡°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.


    Then blue¡­?


    I stop to wiggle my toes, somehow I''m still alive. My HUD shows the squad, our transponders happily signaling that everyone is still alive. Suit sensors show no increase in radiation and release the HELP system giving me a full view of the heavens. Nuclear fire broils against itself folding and folding again. A whirlpool of cosmic annihilation. Contained on the whim of the -nameless-.


    >Terran Thena: Alaea... you should learn how to do that.


    >Executrix Alaea: STFU. I would! IF I COULD! Kaalra''s been adjusting the orbits of stars for longer than homo sapiens have existed!


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    >Terran Thena: Doesn''t the existence of Singularity and Technocracy imply homo sapiens exist on other worlds? So... A lot longer?


    >Executrix Alaea: Yeah, duh. I''m counting the first human ever to evolve anywhere in the galaxy. So older than dinosaurs.


    In seconds the fire resolves into a black orb of pure radiation. It descends to the dirt and vanishes, presumably buried somewhere it cannot harm the solarium mines. I stare for a second, awestruck by what I¡¯ve seen. The amount of psychic power borders on star snuffing godhood. My suit chimes signaling an incoming communication.


    ¡°Oi boss, Barker seys troopers coming up the path.¡± Says Emu-rine.


    ¡°Troopers?¡± I repeat numbly, turning to face the newcomers.


    Six trenchcoat clad gasmasks, Singularity troopers, jog into view ducking for cover as they see my armored form. My Novan Technocracy armor. The first shot whizzes overhead, warming my faceplate. Another impacts my good shoulder sending me sprawling.


    ¡°Shit!¡± I shout, half diving half pirouetting behind the Juggernaut¡¯s corpse.


    Three energy bolts hit the downed tank, igniting it. Cooking meat and lubricants darken the air as I chin through com channels repeating a plea to cease fire.


    ¡°Got a clear shot on them, just say the word boss.¡± Says Spiderman.


    ¡°No! Ceasefire! We do not need to fight. Got enough damn enemies on this planet.¡± I say, broadcasting on an open com line.


    ¡°If it comes down to you or them. We¡¯ll make sure it¡¯s them.¡± Says Sergeant Wormface.


    Part of me is flattered. What girl doesn¡¯t enjoy having a variety pack of protective marines? But another part of me is horrified. These are my fellow earthlings. Very possibly my classmates, I can¡¯t order them to be blasted.


    ¡°Ceasefire! Singularity troopers, I am not your enemy!¡± I radio.


    My eyes dart to the bunker, checking my reaper fuel levels. If I sprint then boost I should have enough speed to avoid getting my arse shot off. Maybe. Power armor should be able to take multiple hits but what happens if they take out the jetpack? Anything from I explode to it makes me go faster. Too unpredictable.


    My salvation comes from a monkey''s paw. As particle beams echo through the trench.


    A shadow passes above me, one of the many Collective bioforms, a sort of sickly looking spinoling, as if the creature is half starved and extra spikey. It looks at me, shifting weight as it prepares to pounce.


    ¡°No! Go away, go back to Hygieia!¡±


    My words seem to focus its eyes. Like a dog who did not know you are standing behind it and then you call out their name. Only to see mouth foaming from late stage rabies.


    The creature pounces, rending claws glistening with old blood. My pulse rifle rises to meet it golden energy erupting from the muzzle to shred the ling¡¯s lower half. A dozen bolts of energy connect with the creature, half from the troopers and three from my own marines. Shots echo through the trench, alerting all Collective organisms of food.


    Spinolings begin appearing along the trench barking and yipping, flexing claws as they adjust for a pounce. first one, then two, then four. The nearest one meets my gaze, and I remember Hygieia''s words. The Collective mind was disrupted, broken. These are feral beings. The spinoling opens its mouth to roar and my rifle speaks first, scoring a clean headshot. It falls infront of the troopers, alerting them to the presence of a third enemy.


    Bodyweight shifts, they are exposed and unsupported in a vehicular trench. A kill zone. Weight leaves their shoulders, already accepting death as their rifles aim up. I key external speakers to max, simultaneous with my coms.


    ¡°Kill the lings!¡± I order, sticking my solarium enriched muzzle between autocannons and cracking off another shot.


    It goes wide, tearing a ling in half, but the angry maw still has enough piss left to chomp through a trooper¡¯s arm and tear into their chest before a second trooper bayonets his eye. I wince, sympathizing with getting a limb removed. Ouch.


    Our fire is accurate and effective, designed to defeat Juggernauts, yet the lings are equally well designed and wound eight troopers before the last spinosaurus dog is slain. Now is my chance to flee, run back to the bunker and save myself. But I can¡¯t abandon them.


    One tap and my visor opens to reveal my gasmask. Rifle in hand I wave the troopers forward.


    ¡°Cmon you idiots! Get to the bunker!¡± I shout still using the helmet¡¯s external speakers.


    At least one of them gets the message and starts running. The others are close behind, held up by the wounded troopers they¡¯re carrying. So many moving bodies speaks to my tremorsense, an ability I shouldn¡¯t possess. But I do. Across the trench network bioforms of our own native designs turn against us all rushing for something familiar. I can sense them coming, somehow attuned to their minds.


    ¡°Get to the bunker! NOW!¡± I shout, sealing my helmet and raising the modified pulser. Two Lings come around a distant trench corner, eight hundred meters away. My first shot is clean, entering the creature¡¯s throat and exiting where his tail meets the spine, but my second shot is disturbed by the passing troopers and only incinerates a leg. The ling stumbles, then adapts to a three legged gait.


    Sable Yurten¡¯s training is excellent, and her aim good, but I¡¯m blocking the other marine¡¯s shots, as are the troopers. I pass my rifle to an unwounded trooper and scoop two wounded soldiers into my arms, fleeing with all the strength left in my tormented lungs. I shift left, aligning myself with the Juggernaut¡¯s husk. It¡¯s a small thing but one that lets Spiderman take his shots.


    During my unplanned nap the man re-earned his nickname, climbing up the bunker¡¯s back wall and digging a nest for himself. We laughed at his antics then, grateful he only dug and didn''t spin a damn web. Now I could kiss him in joy; if he weren¡¯t an electric pink nightmare wrapped in flesh.


    The first shots come in haste, clearing the trench in seconds. Then magazines runs dry, depleted and unable to reload. With the higher vantage he fires at regular intervals forced to pause as his solarium reactored pulser recharges each shot, frustration so palpable I can feel it through Hygieia''s mental link. We should really get him a double upgraded rifle, one that keep up with the aiming potential of eight unerring eyes. He fires two shots as I run, each blast cores a ling, often overpenetrating to slay a second. Troopers shift out of his line of sight and two more marines join the battle keeping us clear as spinolings begin pouring into the trench like a horde of timid dogs. Each pushing the one beside it forward, wanting to hunt, yet unwilling to be first.


    Seven creatures becomes twelve, then twenty, then thirty eight.


    ¡°Check your fire, shots are bringing in the lings.¡± Wormface radios.


    Emurine, Wormface, and Barker immediately switch from full auto barrages to semi auto precision. Spinoling attentions shift to the troopers.


    ¡°They¡¯ve gone feral!¡± I gasp, bounding over the barricade in an armor enhanced leap.


    By the time I hop over our barricade there are more enemy icons on my HUD than I can count. Four Singularity troopers are conducting a fighting retreat. Firing until their cell depletes then turning and running towards us while reloading. Once reloaded they kneel and lay down a barrage on full auto tearing into the onrushing swarm.


    ¡°There are too many of them! Get in here!¡± I shout, taking up a position atop our reinforced crate mountain. Kerrigan, myself, four marines, and now five troopers all add our firepower together, saturating the trench with a blaze of plasma.


    Power cells drain, running our already meager supplies dry. Never in my life have I wished for a supply depot full of bullets until now. Yet every slain ling seems to draw another to us, and in the space of a half hour we have fill the trench with hundreds of bodies.


    >Terran Thena: Hygieia we are pinned down by your people! Help us out!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hive mind is broken


    >Matriarch Hygieia: No control


    >Matriarch Hygieia: No biomass to reacquire control


    >Matriarch Hygieia: need a strong psychic''s biomass


    I drop the exhausted pulser, drawing my flechette pistol dumping a hundred flechettes into the nearest ling. Needles shred their flesh, tearing them into chowder before my eyes. A spinoling leaps from the trenchtop, clever bastard used it to occlude our line of sight until he was within striking range. Claws extend, the world slows down around as our eyes meet. I raise an arm to fend him off, teeth and claws clamp down. Shredding my armor.


    A power armored fist enters my vision from the right. Clenched fingers plow through the spinoling¡¯s face, neck, spine, and ribs. What was once a terrifying creature is now pink mist wrapped around a fist.


    ¡°GET BACK SIR!¡± Shouts Barker, shoving me deeper into the bunker.


    He¡¯s a blur, fisting every zergling like Mike Tyson. I¡¯ve never seen a more ferocious boxer, not even the zealots of the Golden Armada fight with more zeal than Barker. Without him we¡¯d be overrun.


    ¡°Damn lunatic.¡± I mutter, praying he can save us. Or buy enough time to recharge our rifles.


    1 / 1 Biomass (Hygieia cannot store biomass at this time)


    5 / 13 Mechanized


    1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts


    1 Nanofactory aboard ship


    1 Nanofactory in Supply Bunker 0002 (EMP disabled)


    24 Biomass in supply bunker


    Lots of ling corpses, and 12 troopers¡­

 Chapter 27 The Cost of Humanity

    One by one our power cells drain, ammunition counters ticking down as spinolings die. Unarmored, unguided, and largely unintelligent lings fall, unable to rub enough brain cells together and discover fear. Emurine and Wormface swap unmodified pulsers for Singularity C9 Sentinel rifles, a disgustingly cheap particle accelerator that vaporizes a stream of atoms before accelerating them down to relativistic speeds. Better than any autocannon, and complete lingshit against armor.


    Wormface hits a ling dead center of it''s head, blasting a one inch hole through spines, skull, and what little grey matter the ling has, sending it careening into a side wall, legs flailing even in death.


    The Collective is out in force, fully intent on earning their moniker of ¡®Endless¡¯. Someone borrows my flechette pistol, firing bursts of five shots into oncoming lings. Other bioforms enter the trench, discolored in patches and following a different phenotype than spinolings, experimental vagrants cooked up by dissenting Matriarchs, always failing to surpass our own spinolings.


    "Should have trusted Zazathur." I mutter, digging through the crates to find more flechettes, arm aching in pain. My suit''s gel layer is self sealing to a degree, and clamps down against my broken arm. Were it not for the armor I wouldn''t have anything to complain about, cause I''d be dead. As it is, arm tentacles extend, applying pressure to the wound and splinting my arm with the armor.


    Crates open as I listen to our firing slow, and one crate in particular catches my eye, labeled ''0b11001010-Railcaster''. I laugh, using my one good arm and the technician''s interface to load three clones of my flechette pistols before dragging the whole crate to our door and firing one handed. Targetting computers guide my aim, claiming ten lings with short bursts.


    Without a controlling mind the beasts act like fearless wolves, death is not a concept they are allowed to know, nor are they wise enough to tunnel beneath our feet. Nor to gather their strength and assault us all at once. It¡¯s an oncoming horde that meanders across our world.


    My heart thunders, terrified that we are fighting for our lives. Yet half my brain revels in the supremacy of combat, gunning down a stream of monsters all capable of tearing me apart. Is this how my marines felt during the ¡®All In¡¯ mission? When endless hordes of lings streamed into layered lines of tanks and bunkers only to be annihilated by artifact waves and the pride of human engineering?


    I¡¯ve slain scores of lings now and still they come. As if their only meaning in life is to be slain by me, waltzing into our plasma fire. Thousands of feet set the earth a rumble and still we fight on. Flechettes mingle with solarium pulsers running dry in moments. Additional crates are discovered by ransacking soldiers, rekindling our fire. Only Spiderman¡¯s rifle remains constant. He picks each shot carefully, deliberately firing only when each shot will slay multiple lings.


    Barker cartwheels backwards, faceplanting into mud before crawling back to the entrance and ducking behind a line of crates, fresh shovel at the ready. Prepared to die for us. If I wasn¡¯t scared shitless, the gesture would be downright sexy. But adrenaline has sharpened my mind, focusing me forward. Flechettes run dry and I recover my customized pulser, feeling the thrum of my reactors moving quarks into my pulser¡¯s chamber. My arm is broken but attached, so I pick my shots carefully, waiting until the lings funnel into the bunker¡¯s mouth. What once was a thirty foot wide hole has been tightened down to ten feet with two -mostly symmetrical- pyramids of dirt filled crates on either side forming three funnels. Easy lanes of fire.


    I toss the reaper explosives from my bandolier, draining every munition we have. Yet the explosions only bring more lings.


    ¡°Shit, guess this is it.¡± I whisper, glancing around me once.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, if I die, take care of Kerrigan.


    >Executrix Alaea: I will.


    >Executrix Alaea: But don¡¯t you dare give up!


    >Terran Thena: I won¡¯t. Got my FNX and knife ready.


    The promise is hollow, a human pistol lacks the velocity of the flechettes, and the terminal ballistics of their needles that bend and blend flesh. Nor can I use it with the suit¡¯s targeting systems so I''ll lose accuracy. My fingers tremble, adrenaline dump wearing off. In short, I¡¯m already fucked.


    A helmet slips open, visor rising. Loud in the silence of onrushing lings. Spiderman freezes, going totally still. As do Barker, Emurine, and wormface. Light fills the bunker from behind me, emitting from the top of crate mountain.


    I spin, taking in a sight I always knew was coming. Kerrigan¡¯s eyes are glowing, like a purple black light, crates luminesce, as does spilt zergling blood. My ammo counter turns over to 1 and I fire a shot, coring three frozen spinolings. The collateral damage does not stem from my skill, no it comes from the sudden paralysis.


    As a unified collective the spinolings turn tail and flee. They¡¯re falling back, deciding whatever meat within this bunker isn¡¯t worth fighting over. Yet they halt just beyond our vision, digging into the earth or slinking around corners. Feral minds confused. Seeking safety alone.


    Lurking on the edges of our periphery, devouring the corpses of their fallen brethren. Other bioforms wiggle their way through the dirt, emerging from trench walls only to be savaged by waiting lings. Basal instincts of fighting and gathering biomass are there, but little else.


    ¡°What the Hell?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°It¡¯s the link. When Shipmind and the other Matriarchs died they lost control. Fleetmind should have taken over but I no longer sense his influence, as if they''ve retreated, or cut us off. Seems like our cousins are nothing but animals now.¡± Answers Wormface.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t you guys affected then?¡±


    The sergeant smacks Barker, ordering him to recharge our rifles.


    ¡°Our Matriarch is wisest of all. She foresaw this eventuality, and granted us greater autonomy to better serve our Queens. Though we feel a great emptiness. As if- well uhm- I¡¯m not sure. As if something that has always been connected to you is suddenly gone, like both arms being severed in an instant. It feels- well, I hate the sensation.¡± Wormface mutters.


    I try to sit up and find my chest on fire. Adrenaline dump is gone, bringing my broken arm into sharp focus. Agony pounds me into the crates. Where the bullet in my damn lung whispers mortality. I grit my teeth, passing my rifle off to Emurine.


    ¡°Ack, keep watch.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir.¡± He answers, exchanging the singularity laser rifle for my pulser.


    Kerrigan is there in an instant looming over my prone form.


    ¡°You alright?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll live, This will take surgery to clean out. Ah,¡± I take a moment to breathe slowly, leaning to one side so my opposite lung can inflate more. It seems to lessen the pain. ¡°Help me up, those troopers are my best bet at medical treatment.¡±


    Her frown is loud enough for me to hear through two faceplates, but a second later armored hands pick me up, placing me upright.


    ¡°You pwamised not two leave me.¡± Whispers Kerrigan, a hint of her old lisp creeping back.


    My hand pats her shoulder pauldron, our faceplates clinking together.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. This is totally survivable, a flesh wound.¡± I lie, hoping it''s the truth. ¡°Keep those lings away from us so we can recover.¡± I whisper, tight beaming the request to Kerrigan alone.


    She''s pissed, not wanting me to go, but knowing we won''t hold if the lings return. So one nod later she heads for the entrance, standing idle a moment before stooping to help break open supply crates and refill them with dirt then stacking the improvised sandbags in front of Barker. Spinolings retreat from the trench, driven back by her presence, leaving me to wonder just what Kerrigan has become. Certainly psionic and clearly altered to be a bioweapon, but what specific kind of psychic monstrosity eludes me.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°No, she is Kerrigan, my friend. Don¡¯t overthink it.¡± I whisper walking around Barker¡¯s growing earthworks.


    He¡¯s building a formation I don¡¯t recognize, taking dirt from the walls and floor, but whatever sim city he has going is working well enough. Small gaps are left between the crates, large enough for armored personel to march through single file, creating a chokepoint for us to defend. It''s not nearly as good as a high ground ramp but just about as close as we can get.


    Soon green crates tower above us, tall enough to inconvenience all movement without inhibiting our firing lanes. The sight reminds me of walling off ramps with Terran supply depots, a critical tactic that one was expected to master quickly or forever be damned to the anals of bronze league with all the stinkiest cheeses.


    ¡°Ah, this is what I get for fighting on the frontlines. Heroes never hold up to plasma cannons and artillery. Bleh, I know that! I always got Jim killed when we tried to infiltrate Castanar, so why the hell did I think this would be any different?¡± I groan, arm going numb as I work my way back to the troopers.


    They''re huddled together, one gasmask watching the entrance, C9 rifle up and ready. Three of their number are wounded and being treated by their officer, rank insignia on his shoulder designate him as a corporal, technically a non commissioned officer though the Singularity is less topheavy than Earth, and this corporal likely commanded twelve squads of twelve recruits for one hundred and forty four souls in his hands. Hands that are currently tearing through several packs, gear strewn across three empty crates, a bad sign. No one has a dedicated medkit. Nor a medic to use it. And I need a fully trained surgeon to patch up my lung. Unless I want to dig a shell out with my combat knife. I shiver at the thought.


    ¡°Hey doc, got wounded not too long ago. Once you finish with them can you take a look?¡±


    He didn¡¯t bother looking up. ¡°Got morphine and two sticks of biofoam. Damn bugs hit our medic. Nanite injector is probably still on his arm. If they haven¡¯t eaten it.¡± Said the corporal, injecting the last of his biofoam into the soldier.


    A smile crosses my face. These assholes were lucky enough to have a medic!


    ¡°Let¡¯s go get it then. You and me.¡±


    ¡°Are you stupid?¡± He snaps, leaping to his feet.


    In a second his energy pistol appear, muzzle punching my helmet.


    ¡®Do not shoot.¡¯ I mentally order, knowing Spiderman and Emurine already have their weapons trained on the corporal.


    A fact he seems to miss. He rips the magazine out of his pistol waving it in front of my face.


    ¡°Ten shots! I have ten fucking shots left! You think we can fight our way through¨C¡±


    My arm tentacles snatch the powercell out of his fingers, warping it away to Alaea. The sudden loss of his only bullets silences the man, but I can hear his growing fury.


    ¡°Got something for ya.¡± I say, warping one of our spare pulse rifles into my hand. The sudden growing blue light confuses him long enough to complete the warp in. ¡°Only one magazine, should be good for sixty shots. Tulverian plasma rifle, it''s probably a little heavy and the wrong length of pull-¡±


    ¡°Lets get that god damn medic!¡± Snaps the man. Already heading for the door.


    ¡°Wait, sound off on ammo!¡± I snap. We may have missed a single magazine in an unused rifle, but everyone else is dryer than Mar Sara after an orbital bombardment.


    ¡°Half a charge,¡± Says Emurine.


    ¡°Bout the same.¡± Calls Spiderman.


    ¡°Got two cells.¡± Answers a trooper, handing the second one to a fellow trooper.


    ¡°Boss, if we wait five minutes our ammo supply will double.¡± Advises Wormface, gesturing to our charging station.


    With Alaea keeping our two nanofactories running I know he¡¯s right, not to mention our two recharging pulsers.


    ¡°Hey Spiderman, you got a visual on the medic¡¯s body?¡±


    ¡°Yessir. Medic went down and is buried under a half dozen lings. Shot em myself sir.¡±


    That¡¯s perfect. His body and gear was probably protected from any stray shots. We¡¯ll just need to run through a ling infested trench¡­


    Crap.


    I catch corporal as he steps atop the barricade, allowing passive scanners to assess the trench. At least he got that right, an active sensor ping might trigger the waiting lings.


    Three hundred corpses lay in piles with eighty two spinolings devouring the bodies. Without a hive mind to keep them in check they¡¯re fulfilling base needs. Food, water or blood apparently, and then shelter. As I watch four of them work together to drag a corpse out of the trench, heading off to nest in some underground burrow.


    ¡°We¡¯ve got more than eighty two shots-¡±


    A suit of shitbrown Technocracy armor waddles in front of me, stopping an inch away from my own armor.


    ¡°Pfina. No.¡± Says Kerrigan, her visor sliding open.


    Corporal gasmask and the other troopers tense, hands tightening around their guns. Not many creatures in the universe have bioluminescent eyes, fewer still have humanoid features. They know she is a bioweapon, one who can end all of us. But the flashtraining holds and they maintain discipline. I hope its because they understand she is the only thing keeping the spino dogs of war at bay, and not out of cowardice.


    ¡°You pwamised not twwo weave me.¡± Whispers Kerrigan, somehow managing to pout with the split mandible.


    Cute and terrifying. Like a rattlesnake coming to lick your finger and cuddle. She¡¯s grown several inches since I last saw her, now appearing as a twelve year old girl, slender, but with hints of adult features across her face. Especially the glowing purple amethysts that have become her eyes.


    ¡°Spiderman, blast anything that tries to eat the medic. Otherwise, we hold for five minutes.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    Outside the sun was beginning to set, red waves flowed across the irradiated atmosphere of Syrak, distorted by cancerous particles. My eyes flutter shut, tuning out the world and focusing only on the tremorsense. Somehow I can tap into the sixth sense, with booster nodes from each of the mutant marines. Mutmarines? Mutrines? They have the large pauldrons of a starcraft marine -to protect their head and contain sensors of course- but nothing contained within the armor can be classified as ''Terran'' or even close to human.


    So we hunker down for five minutes, watching tremorsense for motion. Any minute flick of spinoling ears, or a claw scraping mud. Any tell-tale tattle.


    More than fifty spinolings have burrowed into the walls and ground around us, lying in wait to ambush anyone who dares leave the bunker. Kerrigan is righter than she¡¯ll ever know.


    Or maybe she senses the trap.


    ¡°Okay Kerrigan, I¡¯m open to solutions.¡±


    The corporal whirls on us, about to protest. After all, his soldiers need those supplies more than I do. I forestall his questions with a raised hand, adding, ¡°Attacking now will only result in more casualties. Sir. Work the problem. Didn¡¯t see the ambush til Kerrigan pointed it out. We can¡¯t go out there yet.¡±


    Alaea¡¯s nanofactory completes the analysis of Corporal''s kidnapped powercell appearing on my HUD, one thought and it warps back to my hand. It¡¯s singularity standard issue, although probably built on a more advanced world as it is uniquely within spec, without a single tolerance off the designated ideal. In short, it was perfectly manufactured. So far above mil-spec that it makes match-grade look sloppy. Like using a swiss watchmaking lathe to form cookie dough.


    It wasn''t made in any nanofactory. Good as they are, nanofactories are generalized tools, incapanle of the atomic level precision required to build this particular cell. Dropped from orbit and shipped across battlefields, nanofactories and their ilk are built for durability first, and ''good enough'' precision. So this pistol was made on a world with atomic or subatomic 3d printers. Not Syrak-9. A few of the Singularity''s sacred progenitor worlds possess that sort of capacity, but they''d be too busy manufacturing cores and memory banks for the AI councils -tools that would benefit the Singularity for millennia- not a single throw away pistol likely to be fragged in an artillery barrage.


    Something is off about these troopers.


    All their helmets are functional -despite an EMP that knocked out Juggernauts-. Sure if they were burrowed deeply enough underground then dirt volume would have insulated them from the electron cascade, but if that''s the case, how did they arrive so quickly?


    My suspicion spreads to my underlings, all the mut-rines keeping one of their eyes on the newcomers, for Spiderman and Wormface this is no difficult task. But for me, nearly impossible with this bullet in my lung.


    The pistol¡¯s power cell appears in my hand, and I offer it to the man as a sort of weaponized olive branch to Corporal. Shoulders slump in defeat, and he takes it. Knowing his friends will die without my aid.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, I¡¯ve got a bullet in my lung, and three wounded humans. Any healing or solutions?


    >Executrix Alaea: You¡¯ve got my nanintes, they¡¯ll eventually patch the wound and repair it. They can work like an internal band-aid, using your own cells to seal the wound. Now listen up, cause this is important, just cause the wound is plugged doesn''t mean you''re healed. All the cells have to divide and then gradually get swapped out with the nannies. Do NOT get shot again or the nanites will have to split up and both wounds will take twice as long to heal. Except, my arm is all tingly¡­ You got shot again didn¡¯t you?


    >Terran Thena: Uhm¡­ No. But I think my arm is broken.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: i gave you cells identical to mine


    >Matriarch Hygieia: so you can heal from any wound that doesn''t fry your brain


    >Matriarch Hygieia: assuming your body has the metabolic resources it requires


    >Matriarch Hygieia: how much do you like those humans?


    I wince, wondering if those two factors are how I¡¯ve survived being shot in the lung and realize I should have died a third time on this world. Kerrigan is right, no more chances.


    >Terran Thena: They¡¯re probably Earthlings, so we can¡¯t dissolve them into biomass.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: not what i meant


    >Matriarch Hygieia: my only biopool cant fit a person


    >Matriarch Hygieia: but a symbiote could work


    Symbiote? Thoughts of turning the gasmask wearing humans into Venom enhanced superheroes tickles my imagination.


    >Terran Thena: Symbiote like Venom and Spiderman?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Symbiote like Goauld.


    Emotional whiplash shudders up my spine. That kind of symbiote would implant itself within the humans, heal them, and then take control of their bodies. Worse, they would be entirely conscious of its actions. Able to see what their body said, what it did, taste the food it ate, hear their voice speak to their loved ones. All without being able to move.


    >Terran Thena: Hell no.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: no choice


    >Matriarch Hygieia: no biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: no pool


    >Matriarch Hygieia: no other options from me


    >Terran Thena: I said NO. We aren¡¯t mind controlling fellow Earthlings


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cant reengineer them today


    >Matriarch Hygieia: might be possible later


    >Matriarch Hygieia: live today


    >Matriarch Hygieia: live free tomorrow


    >Matriarch Hygieia: best i can do

 Chapter 28 Our Game Finally Begins

    >Matriarch Hygieia to symbiote or not to symbiote


    >Matriarch Hygieia that is the question


    >Matriarch Hygieia: tell me now or dont


    >Matriarch Hygieia: can have twelve symbiotes in an hour


    >Matriarch Hygieia: guess i landed with wormfaces genetic material


    >Matriarch Hygieia: lucky you


    Kerrigan cocks her head, wondering why I''ve been so silent.


    ¡°Uhm, just thinking of solutions, hey Corporal, think I broke my arm too.¡± I say, raising the savaged limb. ¡°Got a med scanner or vitals on your troopers?¡± I ask, hopping off the barricade.


    No sense in talking within barking range of spinolings, one might get antsy and take a nibble. Best to get under cover.


    ¡°Got both, they¡¯re in the medic¡¯s pack.¡± Snaps Corporal, sighting down the plasma rifle¡¯s optic. It''s got a variable zoom from 0x magnification so you can use it like a red dot for quick shots or dial it all the way up to 20x magnification for more precise work. Better than anything we have on earth. No parallax, or glass to break, only a diamond lens more durable than literal bullets.


    ¡°Come away Corporal. See those tails of theirs? That stinger? It''ll kill you just like an organic landmine and they¡¯ve burrowed all around us. Anyone attempting to leave our bunker will get stabbed twenty times before you can kiss your ass goodbye.¡± I say, finding a seat on a crate.


    Radiation is at an all time low within the bunker, well within human safe levels. I crack open the suit, slowly working my top half out of the press. Breathing instantly becomes easier, and more painful as my lungs finally open to their proper dimensions. Blood dribbles out of old wounds, broken flesh rebleeding as clots fall apart. Something snags on the armor -other than my tits- sending lightning through my diaphragm. Breathe catches in my throat, unable to shout or inhale. One hand pushes against the armor slowly lifting myself up and out. Kerrigan kneels beside me, opening her own armor and shimmying out of it easily.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you just a graceful gal.¡± I say through gritting teeth.


    She smiles at me, exposing rows of fangs. Like a megalodon''s driver''s license picture.


    All four feet of her perches on the suit, tail flicking, eyes ablaze. Like a purple succubus. Sans wings. Two lumps are growing in prominence on her chest, though her skin has darkened further, covering any areola that might have been. In fact, parts of her skin have darkened to brown plates, worn smooth by abrasion yet that same friction seems to stimulate their growth, building armored plates across her body. Hips, knees, elbows, and chest all bear the same chitinous plates, although the joints have developed segmented layers that allow the plates to overlap. Thus maintaining flexibility.


    Her claws reach across and tug at my side, coming away with a bullet larger than my thumb. It¡¯s smashed to all hell, like someone hit it with a hammer. But that isn¡¯t what makes my heart skip a beat. It¡¯s an explosive round. With the warhead still intact. The ballistic tip detonator, its trigger, is gone.


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    Wormface joins us, taking the bullet and examining it. ¡°Boss, if this detonated, you¡¯d be dead.¡±


    ¡°Check my wound.¡± I answer, trying to distract the onlookers.


    Can''t have a Sergeant calling an unranked technician ''boss''. That won''t do at all.


    I have no time to think about asking a colony of worms to check the gaping hole inside of me, which is a good thing. Cause I might have shit myself if I realized.


    Kerrigan hops over to stand next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as she peeks at the wound. I''m a tad worried she might start licking it. Thankfully Sergeant Wormface tosses the bullet to Corporal and uses the suit¡¯s arm tentacles to cauterize and dress my wound. One would think burning away flesh would hurt, and logically I feel the pain, but do not cry out. Whether the nanites or hive DNA or plain old exhaustion is responsible can''t be guessed, but my reaction to pain is fully suppressed.


    Long moments pass before Wormface is done. Barker never stops working, nor do the four healthy troopers, driven by the demon of impotence. They know nothing can be done except wait for cells to recharge, so instead of watching a blinking light they dig. Alaea finished a second solarium recharger and now we are rebuilding our ammo supplies nicely. Every person has at least two magazines worth of shots. Not enough to fight a war, but plenty for keeping the odd spinoling at bay. Even Corporal¡¯s pistol was able to catch a recharge cycle.


    Which is when I realize, this bunker, Technocracy bunker 0002, is my very first supply depot. Our game of Starcraft has officially begun, and I need to treat this match like the intergalactic war of sudden death that it is. These mutant-marines will form the core of our offensive forces, and serve as our primary source of reclaiming supplies. So similar yet so different than workers. Wormface seals my wound with a dab of biofoam and gives me a thumbs up. I return the gesture and realize my arm is still fractured, though at some point Wormface stitched up the gashes there, leaving a ragged criss cross that will scar heavily, but I¡¯m alive.


    ¡°Ah, Thank you sergeant. That ought to hold me for now. Take a look at the other troopers, see what you can do.¡±


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Says Wormface, more to humor me than to accept the order. He¡¯s already heading for the troopers, microtentacles heating red hot in a cleaning cycle.


    Kerrigan curls around me, like a cat squishing into their favorite box. Before I know what¡¯s happening she¡¯s adhered to me tighter than chains, arms and legs wrapped around my trunk. Cheek resting against my collarbone. There is still blood in her hair, which is already two inches longer than it was. The cause of her tightness is clear in the desperation that binds her. I¡¯m the only constant in her life, the one who gave her a name. In a way, that makes me her mom. A notion that makes me deeply uncomfortable. How can I take care of her when I''m barely making it through this war myself?


    I can only reply to her unasked question one way, and wrap her in an equally tight hug for several minutes. Then plant a kiss on her forehead.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine.¡± I whisper. ¡°Cmon, let¡¯s brainstorm a way to get that medkit.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll help! Use dthis.¡± Says Kerrigan, tapping on my forehead without any explanation.


    Odd thoughts enter my mind, like the flash training but smoother, less jarring yet far more unsettling. A life lived as Apollo Finley instead of Athena Finley. Peeing while standing up -very disorienting-, of training everyday to be an olympic¡­ Telekinetic? Strange, Earth has psychics, albeit weak ones and the telekinetic challenges were deeply boring to watch but on a whim I channel the memories, aiming at a distant ration pack, ah why bother? It¡¯s well past my 20 gram limit-


    -it flies through the air and slaps me in the nose hard enough to make my eyes water.


    ¡°Oh shiiiit! Ouch!¡± I cry.


    The ration falls onto my lap, and Kerrigan tightens her grip. Revelation hits me. Kerrigan isn¡¯t human. She is a psychic steroid. That is her base form. Her purpose! She exists to stimulate the powers of others; not use them herself, or, wait¡­ That¡¯s not how Alaea phrased it, she said Kerrigan helps the nameless regulate their powers. This requires testing. I focus on a nearby crate, one that is empty and attempt to lift-


    -the crate leaps upward sailing towards the ceiling. Kerrigan squishes against me, cold sweat forming on her skin, and the crate halts, my once impossibly weak telekinesis has evolved. Well, as long as I¡¯m holding Kerrigan¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Someone, get me a scope.¡±


    Emurine is pressing the pulser''s scope against my ocular socket before I finish speaking. His suit communicates with the optic to share vision, turning an awkward solution into a rather elegant self-aiming-monocular. Being waited on hand and foot is odd, but I¡¯ll take it!


    Together we find the medic¡¯s corpse. One by one I move the spinoling corpses, though its more like a pile of legs, skulls, and tails, with the occasional crest or spine falling sideways. Spiderman¡¯s aim is exceptional, both fast and accurate although he does have eight eyes so he has the correct tools for rapid and accurate triangulation of targets... Although, triangulation means three sensors or three points, so is this Octoangulation?


    Fresh spinolings mill around the corpses, happily crunching their way through clones. We leave them be, unwilling to trigger another stampede. They must be part of the Collective''s initial landing, survivors beyond Hygieia''s control. Several of them have grown elongated spines, or their dorsal crests lengthened into a forest of crystal trees, each shining in the deepening darkness. With a thought I lift the medic¡¯s corpse, holding it steady. This is the easiest lift of my life, less effort than a simple curl.


    My mind empties, not worrying about how outnumbered we are or if there are Juggernauts incoming or any other trivial thing less important than a thirty day money back guarantee. I float the medic into our bunker, my telekinesis never once disturbing the dirt and appearing on friendly or opposing tremorsenses.


    Before I can set down the body Corporal tears off the backpack and leaps over the central crate mountain rushing to give his troopers aid. I take my time, recovering his C3 pistol -a massive improvement over my FNX- and the equipment built into his armor. Then lower the corpse below anyone¡¯s line of sight and warp it away. More biomass for Hygieia. More future warriors for our Collective population.


    [+1 biomass]


    Collective population. I repeat the words, it¡¯s entirely confusing and improper. We need a new name for Hygieia¡¯s forces, the bioforms who only serve us. I laugh out loud, the answer is wrapped around me. We¡¯ll use Zerg naming conventions, so our forces are ¡®The Swarm¡¯.


    Singularity troopers turn to look at me, curiosity brought on about my laughter. I''ve no time to examine the C3 pistol''s tolerances, though I suspect it''s equally perfect. One pistol with offworld origin is innocent enough, but two? My memories answer immediately, the Azhurai Conglomerate is a far more advanced species, comprised of many races with a single race so advanced -the Azhuai- that other races and planets give them full dominion of government, military, economics, and private life; all in the hope of being educated.


    ¡°Troopers, go help your corporal. Let us watch the door for a few minutes.¡± I call.


    Those working look at Barker who shrugs, ¡°Dirt¡¯ll keep. Go lick your friend¡¯s arse while you can.¡±


    Three of the troopers cock their heads, as if to say ¡®what the fuck is wrong with you?¡¯ but they drop shovels and join the triage unit, doing what they can for the wounded.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, I¡¯ve got hundreds of biomass Queen Hygieia, lady of The Swarm. You ready?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: is that what we¡¯re calling my spawn?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: actually I like it


    >Matriarch Hygieia: send ten


    I comply, telekinetically floating the largest chunks of spinolings -plasma really wrecks these little guys, like a siege tank''s main gun splatters individual zerglings- inside the bunker where they are marked and warped out in groups of five until Hygieia asks for more. In ten minutes she¡¯s stacked up the remnants of sixty lings. Then sends a message I¡¯ve been waiting to hear.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: straingineer is working


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Collective biomass is easier to render back into components


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Biopool established


    >Matriarch Hygieia: this is enough to build our workers and support organisms


    >Matriarch Hygieia: HIVE CLUSTER ESTABLISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: we have free reign over any Collective design


    >Matriarch Hygieia: got a ship design an ambassadorial courier, fast but no guns


    >Matriarch Hygieia: 2000 biomass needed


    >Matriarch Hygieia: can harvest my landing ship for most of that if we have six months


    >Matriarch Hygieia: muuuuuccchhhh sooner if you start hunting


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Athena. We can have a way home.


    My heart trembles, tears fill my eyes leaking into my gasmask. We have a way out, a ticket off this shitty world. We can go home to Earth to mom-


    I stop, recalling what Jim said. Scavengers will pick Earth clean. Unless I take Syrak-9. He set a time limit too, one I can¡¯t remember now. One month? Maybe two?


    >Terran Thena: Going home isn¡¯t enough. We need to land with an army.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: What?! CMON!


    >Executrix Alaea: She¡¯s right.


    >Executrix Alaea: There are twelve landed warships and about twenty in Earth¡¯s orbit. A courier will get shot down. You¡¯ll be more powerless here than you are on that mining world.


    >Executrix Alaea: Come in force.


    >Executrix Alaea: Or do not come at all.

 Chapter 29 Change of Plans

    >Terran Thena: Did you think I would leave Kerrigan behind?


    I stroke her hair with a ration pack wet wipe, gently grooming my best friend while her claws tear into the pate #12, some kind of blended forcemeat. She''s saved me part of the chocolate ration, a confectionary delight I savor. Idly wondering if I can even get cavities anymore. Judging by my fingernails, probably not... My black fingernails have grown long and pointed, like the fierce acrylics Savannah and Whorely sometimes wore. However, these won¡¯t come off with a dab of acetone.


    Whatever. Nail clippers are cheap back on Earth.


    >Terran Thena: We are all going home. Together. So in force. Alaea, we¡¯ll need more detailed information on the forces that control Earth, especially those around the US.


    >Executrix Alaea: Yeah I was worried you would say that. Singularity forces took North America, similar to those on Syrak. In fact, unusually similar. We¡¯ve got Holy Singularity Frigates, Novan Technomancy Spheres, an Azhurai ship which is going to be the kingpin, and some Collective forces. Although the Collective seems to be struggling with Australia. They landed a ship then apparently picked up and fucked off, guess there were too many different flavors of poisonous murder. Serves em right, but they¡¯re making up the losses by scavenging Brazil. There is a truce of sorts between the factions, but idk how the Novans and Singular fanatics aren¡¯t taking pot shots. Maybe they¡¯re all cooperating while they prepare for war, honestly, systems end up getting conquered by a single faction in ninety three percent of all new gate deployments. Dividing Earth just doesn¡¯t make sense!


    >Terran Thena: Aight, we conquer Syrak, then Electric Boogaloo the Earth two.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: that was so cringe


    >Terran Thena: So cringe you laughed? Me too. Now uhm, I mean this in the most literal and kindest way; go fuck yourself. We need babies.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: thats not the correct use of a semicolon!


    >Executrix Alaea: Really? Grammar critique from the one who forgot what periods are? Pun intended.


    I laugh so hard that tears flow down my cheeks at a thick enough pace to drown me. Startling Kerrigan. The gasmask comes off before I¡¯m submerged.


    ¡°Mmmmwah!¡± I say, exaggerating a kiss on Kerrigan¡¯s forehead. ¡°Cmon, lets check on the troopers.¡±


    She¡¯s solidly attached, forcing me to carry her. All while my bleeding lung strains against the nanite seal -which I am incredibly thankful for, as it prevents another sucking chest wound- and my cauterized arm counterbalances my friend. For a kid, Kerrigan seems built differently, denser. I have to hobble through the bunker with troopers who do their best not to give Kerrigan the stink eye. Thankfully the gasmasks hide the worst glares, but I can still feel their nervousness. They¡¯ve seen what a human shaped bioweapon can do.


    ¡°Corporal, how are they?¡±


    I ask out of courtesy, trying to get the man talking. The med scanner is already in my hand, giving me diagnostics on the trio. Another curiously sensitive electronic, unhardened against EMPs yet functioning.


    ¡°A few injections ought to get them back on their feet.¡± He says, voice distant as he holds an automated nanite injector to the second trooper¡¯s neck. A woman with her chest armor torn through. White ribs peek out of the wound, partially concealed by poorly applied biofoam. Faulty application due to lack of foam, not for want of care. This woman is beyond help, I can see her heart. Just the bottom third of it, but the organ is motionless. She needs a full hospital, one capable of stasis and organ manufacture.


    His injector fails to activate, a red light blinking. We both know what that evil pulsing means. Triage this patient. In laymans terms, there aren¡¯t enough nanites in the world to save the patient. Medical supplies devoted to them will only be wasted, and in a warzone wasted medical gear equates to a life lost.


    Hygieia¡¯s offer enters my mind. Is it better to be dead, or possessed? Another snap decision is made, I mentally screenshot the medscanner and beam all vitals to Hygieia, accompanied by the sole question.


    >Terran Thena: Can you save any of them with a symbiote?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: knew you would ask


    >Matriarch Hygieia: so i made a dozen


    >Matriarch Hygieia: yes. the sooner the better


    I should be furious, but Hygieia seems to have become the most logical and ruthless of our Tri-Thenar alliance. Symbiotes are small things, all twelve most likely cost less than a single ling, with the potential of capturing twelve soldiers. A tiny investment for a major payoff.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Corporal presses the nanoinjector to the man¡¯s neck once more. Impotent against the system''s lockouts. With his medic dead there is no way for him to override the triage decision.


    ¡°Help the third man.¡± I say, keeping my voice low.


    ¡°You¡¯re not even human, what do you care?¡± Hisses the corporal, shoving me away.


    I shuffle with the shove, gasping for air as lungs cramp. Barely managing to twist away so Kerrigan¡¯s stinger doesn¡¯t slash through Corporal¡¯s hand. But the motion isn¡¯t missed by other troopers.


    In a second three rifles are aimed at my head. Itchy fingers on triggers.


    ¡°Whoa, we¡¯re all on the same team here.¡± I say, raising one empty hand. ¡°Just trying to help.¡±


    Purple light leaks out of Kerrigan¡¯s closed eyes.


    ¡°You hurt Pfina, I¡¯ll hurt you.¡±


    Beneath my mask I sigh through a smile.. Cute as she is, those are the last words I need to hear right now.


    ¡°Oi, you lot are acting like a bunch of piss rate begging assholes. You¡¯d be dead without us.¡± Snaps Wormface, tapping on the sergeant bars of his armor. ¡°Unless you¡¯re a med officer, fall in.¡±


    None of the troopers move. As if they know his rank is only a fabrication from Alaea and not issued by the Singularity.


    ¡°You deaf? I said fall in! That¡¯s an order you deaf apes!¡± Snaps Wormface.


    Servos whine, and I can tell Spiderman and Emurine have turned, their guns trained on the troopers. This isn¡¯t right. Flashtraining should have conditioned trooper minds to obey orders on both a conscious and subconscious level. It is quite literally programming that these troopers are blatantly breaking! It should not be possible, just like one cannot simply ask their heart to stop beating-


    -Unless these soldiers weren¡¯t flashtrained.


    Barker quits digging and finds his rifle, wiping mud off the unmodified pulser. I sensed something pass from Hygieia to Wormface, an unspoken command from progenitor to minion.


    ¡°Guys, I know the Technocracy armor looks odd, but we are all part of the Holy Singularity, protectors of mankind. I¡¯m Sable Yurten of the one hundred and fifth training core, they reassigned me to Syrak but no one bothered to brief us before I arrived.¡± I say.


    ¡°You¡¯re a damn greenie! Brand spanking new? Really?¡± Snaps a woman to my left. She isn¡¯t pointing the rifle at my chest like the other two, but she¡¯s also making sure the roving tip doesn¡¯t stray too far.


    ¡°Soldiers,¡± Began Wormface, stepping in front of me. ¡°Look. I haven¡¯t slept in what feels like a lifetime and we have a hundred monsters about ready to crawl between our feet and tear our testicles off. Whatever malfunction you¡¯re having, this is not the time nor place. Get your shit squared.¡±


    In my periphery I could see the microtentacles moving near his leg, lifting an armor plate. But there was no way I could focus on them without calling attention to his plan.


    ¡°Hand over the medscanner.¡± Snapped the corporal, still working on the nanoinjector, blind to all save that small blinking light.


    ¡°Brought it for you to use.¡± I shrugged, holding the scanner out for a trooper to take.


    The woman who spoke before snatches the scanner, practically sprinting as she joins the corporal. Both figures relaxing like crack addicts who just secured their next fix. As if they know the scanner is a tell. Something is wrong. Furtive glances are shot my way. Probably them chatting on a private com link. Their reunion coming simultaneous with the transfer of two symbiotes.


    The first white line crawling up the trooper¡¯s coat. A second symbiote passes from the female¡¯s scanner hand to the corporal, hopping from one arm to the other, now crawling up the trooper¡¯s coats, headed for their necks. A few more inches¡­


    Stingers pushed out of the oddly pail worms, stark coppery darts that plunge through greatcoat and radiation layers into the trooper. She leaned forward, hand steadying herself against the nearby crates. These had yet to be emptied and refilled with dirt so nanofactory supplies tinkled under her touch, most likely some kind of weldable alloy plates. Corporal grasped her shoulder, trying to shake sense into the woman. He yanked her forward, then back, head whiplashing so violently I wondered if the symbiote would be thrown off.


    A second stinger found Corporal¡¯s spine, injecting some milky substance directly between vertebrae directly into his bloodstream. He shuddered, then slumped, leaning one hand against his knees and sliding down the crates until dirt halted his descent. Two troopers down, three left in opposition. Except, that wasn¡¯t right, I could sense twelve symbiotes in the room, all hunting for bodies to possess, sliding between armored boots or over rough worn fabric. Two Symbiotes tried to enter the same wounded trooper, their resources conflicting until one ceded territory to the other. They were on the same team, wanted the same things. First symbiote would retain control with the agreement that a second body would be found soon. Time was needed.


    [+3 soldiers]


    ¡°Hey, Corporal, you look a bit tired.¡± Three rifles point at me, one aiming at an unprotected leg.


    ¡°Look, we all arrived on the same drop. I got your back, so take your time and treat your people. Cmon sergeant, let¡¯s watch the door. Remember it''s only a matter of time before more lings find their way-¡±


    Four things happened within the next second.


    A dozen spinolings leapt over the barricade, Spiderman was first to answer, blasting two out of the air in a single shot. One trooper was next, blasting another ling before it tackled him. Tail thrusting into his chest, ripping globs of flesh as it retracted, ready for another thrust.


    Barker¡¯s shovel hacked through the tail then punched another ling square in the jaw, mandible crunching under the powered fist. The ling flew backwards, thrown out of the bunker with gusto.


    -and two troopers pulled their triggers, aiming directly at me. Time slowed. Triggers clicking audibly through my mask. Barrels began to glow red. I froze. Staring numbly as two bolts of red photons gathered and discharged in my direction. Wormface jerked raising his arm to stop the bolts and missing both. One predicted his action and sailed under his elbow passing through the location his arm had been a split second earlier while the other passed harmlessly through his fingers, aiming directly for my left eyeball.


    This was it. I was about to die. Syrak-9 was about to claim my life for the fifth time. I¡¯d trusted the Singularity and they¡¯d betrayed me. Just like Bazzhole, and Whorely, and Dad. Trust got you killed. Energy began to warm my face, sparking flames off my eyelashes.

 Chapter 30 Savagery

    A purple wall of energy grew, deflecting both bolts. Raw psionic power flooded the bunker, crushing two spinolings against crates and ejecting seventeen others from the bunker. It didn¡¯t stop there either, but continued a hundred meters out, any spinolings trapped between the wave of energy and small things like walls or the planet were splashed into a bloody paste while the lucky ones were hurled into the sky. Priming a stampede of lings.


    Dozens of the creatures ran for their lives, sprinting down the trench with true purpose.


    Wormface slapped both uninfested troopers, throwing them ten feet back.


    He was on them in a second. Power armor pinning them under its weight while his microtentacles held their wrists like impromptu handcuffs. An awkward and decidedly one sided affair. Both troopers went slack, accepting defeat.


    They should have fought back.


    Two symbiotes dropped off Wormface¡¯s armor, slowly crawling up chests. That got the troopers screaming, gas masks doing nothing to hinder their terrified howls.


    ¡°Oh what the fuck!¡± Screamed a man, yanking on the mecha-tentacles with all his strength. Both elbows hit the floor and by the way he arched his back I knew he¡¯d nailed both funnybones. But he continued to thrash, right up until a stinger pierced his neck and the worm injected itself through that dart, somehow inverting its innards into the man¡¯s body.


    Seeing his fate the other trooper began to beg. ¡°No! Please God! No!¡± Cried a woman. ¡°Please, just let me go home! I have a daughter, don¡¯t- PLEASE! STOP! Let me go back to Earth!¡±


    But I was done trusting.


    The Symbiote stung her as well, this time slipping completely into her spine and ending all screaming. Finally came the trooper who¡¯d been standing beside Barker, the one who caught a spinoling¡¯s stinger. He thrashed against the ground poison flowing through his veins and making him seize. Barker held him down, the technician¡¯s power armor turning this wrestling match into a gorilla playing with a doll.


    A final symbiote slithered towards this trooper¡¯s neck, stinger out. Then twisted oddly, as if cocking its head to the side. Wormface said something to it and the damn worm shook its head. Refusing to enter the body.


    ¡°What even is this world?¡± I whispered, pulling Kerrigan tight.


    Her grip was weakening by the second, tail hanging limply. Legs went slack and she slipped off, slumping against the ground. In a second my mask was off, ear to her chest, listening for a pulse. It was there, slow and steady. She was fine, just exhausted from the day¡¯s events. A fact I confirm with the recently freed med scanner. Until it gave me all zeroes. Even unconscious Kerrigan¡¯s stealth mechanisms were active.


    ¡°Thank god.¡± I whispered, finding an empty crate and stuffing it full of soft things before tucking Kerrigan into the improvised bed.


    Looking at her thin chest rising and falling brought on a wave of exhaustion. My last nap felt like it had been days ago despite being only a few hours past. Muscles ached and I just wanted to go home. To curl up beside a man I loved and be safe. As if I were a three year old sleeping between mom and dad.


    But that wasn¡¯t an option for me.


    One tap of my chin and the warp HUD activated. Just in time to see three separate symbiotes enter the poisoned trooper. I suppressed a shudder as they swam into his skin attaching themselves to organs and beginning the process of filtering the man¡¯s blood.


    Except, It wasn¡¯t a man. The poisoned trooper¡¯s mask slipped free, long blonde hair ran wild somehow escaping a series of hairclips and ties. High cheekbones and delicate features gave her the type of face women apply makeup to look like. Absolutely gorgeous. I would be pulling out my hair in envy if not for the three symbiotes moving within her.


    ¡°Yikes.¡± I whispered, distracting myself with logistics.


    We spent eight hours recharging, manufacturing, modifying and rearming. The number of armored soldiers under my command grew from four plus myself and Kerrigan to fourteen all said. With symbiotes controlling and healing the eight humans. Four, including the medic were beyond saving, and were given to Hygieia.


    [+3 biomass]


    Now with the symbiotes¡¯ aid we interrogated the troopers, hoping to meet up with the Singularity. Contrary to what I had initially thought, these troopers were infiltrators of their own breed, Azhurai Conglomerate humans. Corporal hadn¡¯t bothered with introductions because he didn¡¯t have any. They were mind wiped, clean slates sent into Technocracy territory to retrieve Singularity identities before staging an ¡®escape¡¯ from Juggernauts as a cover story to rejoin Singularity forces.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The quip about having a daughter was a complete fabrication, she didn¡¯t have a daughter, let alone any children or family at all. What she did have was the ability to read minds. Testing proved that it was limited to surface thoughts, but I chalked it up as an incredible capture. Kerrigan could play with her later and push those limits, but for now I needed doorkickers.


    ¡°Sir,¡± Began Wormface, ¡°Looks like all their minds were wiped clean for the infiltration, they don¡¯t seem to have names or personalities. All that was supposed to be programmed into them at bunker 0001.¡±


    I tap my foot against the floor.


    ¡°Damnit. We brain-blocked these half baked infiltrators. Let¡¯s just call Corporal by his rank for now, as for the woman, I want any psychics to be preserved wherever possible. An empath isn''t all that great right now, but as a recruiter back home? She''ll kick all the asses. Or she can be our counter spy, someone who screens enemy infiltrators. In short, as we scale up, psychics will become increasingly valuable. Within reason, don¡¯t sacrifice the mission to keep a weak empath alive. We can call her¡­¡± I pull off the woman¡¯s facemask, once again stunned by how drop dead gorgeous she is.


    I¡¯m straight, 110% only attracted to men. But damn, this girl is tempting. All of me wishes to sit down beside her and do nothing more than caress her face, like a narcissist who found a mirror. Did the Azhurai cook this perfect being up?


    Aphrodite is the first thing that comes to mind, goddess of beauty and lust. But that¡¯s too close to my own name, and an ego-maniacal trap. No, I need a better name for her, something with more disloyalty and whoring. After all, she literally has someone piloting her body, I can¡¯t forget she will stab me in the back should something happen to that symbiote, the worm pilot of a mind reading liar.


    ¡°Helen. We will call her Specialist Helen.¡± I say, tugging the gasmask down over her sparkling blue eyes.


    ¡°Yessir!¡± Says Wormface.


    ¡°Thank you sergeant.¡± I say in way of dismissal.


    He keeps everyone busy, all hands moving to build us up. Leaving me free to test this new telekinetic power. Without aid I can move little more than ration packs, but those small floating bars of chocolate nearly shatter my mind. I am a psychic. Not a woowoo bullshit artist, a real, honest to god, psychic being able to move things with my mind.


    >Terran Thena: Girls, I can move things. With my mind!


    >Executrix Alaea: First time?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: probably my zerg cells finally reaching her brain.


    >Terran Thena: Smartasses! Look, this is AWESOME!!!!! I¡¯m practically a ghost!


    >Terran Thena: Wait, Collective cells in my brain? FUCK! Don¡¯t do anything weird Hygieia.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: youll be fine


    >Executrix Alaea: Ha, alright it was pretty cool. I¡¯m just mad that this door still isn¡¯t letting me out.


    >Terran Thena: Fair enough. Hey, I''m going to use bunker 0002 as a supply depot, we¡¯ll expand it and you can clean out that closet of yours in the next few days. Just need Hygieia to finish setting up her kiddy pools and help me dig.


    >Executrix Alaea: ABOUT TIME!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: stfu


    >Matriarch Hygieia: already laid all the eggs


    >Matriarch Hygieia: they¡¯re cooking


    >Matriarch Hygieia: once they pop the ship construction will begin


    >Matriarch Hygieia: 2000 biomass to go home


    >Matriarch Hygieia: DO NOT FORGET


    For now I beam down the last of our ammo, divvying it up so we are all using Tulverian pulsars. An hour passes as we work. Spiderman, Kerrigan, and I all carry solarium reactored models, although we learned our lesson about zerglings and fused three magazines together, kinda like duct taping a reload to your magazine, except with a CNC welder and space age precision. Allowing us to start with triple the reservoir of ammunition, far harder to burn through all that in a single firefight, and a tremendously increased leeway on when our reactor will recharge the magazine.


    Still, I contemplate pistol designs -just in case- as I watch Emurine retrofit the tech suits, repairing the last of the damage.


    Great as tentacles are, these are not frontline combat suits. Those possess heavier armor, mounts for integrated weaponry and more targeting computers rather than the holographic repair manuals we have.


    ¡°Ah, there is always something to upgrade.¡± I mutter, tossing aside those concerns for now.


    Re-equipping all my troops at this point would be a waste of time and resources, better to let everything cook for now. When The last pulser warps into Wormface¡¯s holster I lean back, prodding the hole in my side. Now sealed. My body fully regenerating in the few hours of preparation, my arm seems fixed as well albeit sore, and most importantly my heart no longer aches. Surprising every part of me. Wormface cycled empty magazines onto the solarium rechargers, pulling fresh mags off.


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan boss?¡±


    ¡°Better equipment to protect our biomass. Upgrades, guns, reactors. Uhm, in reverse order. Ultimately it all boils down to us needing more production. A proper Factory and armory, not just the two nanofactories. Nearest one of those I¡¯m aware of is Technocracy HQ. So we take them out next.¡±


    Wormface shook his head, mimicking the human gesture and imitating a sigh. I idly wondered if worms even had lungs, cause he could have fooled me.


    ¡°And after that?¡±


    I smiled from ear to ear.


    ¡°Trinity knocked out the iguanas, so we¡¯ll see if any survived.¡±


    ¡°Why? The Singularity can handle a few soldiers, why fight a battle we don¡¯t need to?


    ¡°Simple. We have to take an army to Earth, so why not offer the Tulverians a way off this godforsaken rock? They''re dead here, but on earth, well, they could be generals.¡± I say, laughing at my mockery of Jim¡¯s words.


    ¡°How are you going to convince cannibal iguanas not to eat you? Then convince them to abandon their homelands in favor of Earth?¡± Asks Wormface.


    I wave a hand, ¡°Details schmeetails. We only need to make the offer, if they want to fight, we¡¯ll bury them. If they tell us to fuck off, well, you¡¯re holding the best plasma rifle I¡¯ve ever seen, safest option is to let the Singularity crush them. Safer too. Cause getting shot is yesterday¡¯s news. Never again.¡±


    ¡°Aye boss, never again.¡± Repeated wormface.


    Maybe I imagined it, but I could have sworn the worm was smiling beneath that faceplate.

 Chapter 31 Macro it out

    To reclaim Earth, we needed warriors. An army.


    Over the radio we pick up snippets of Tulverian¡¯s fighting from their main bunker, hooting with gusto or terror; hard to tell with the iguanas. Until the second day when they go silent.


    We spent three days in the bunker, snatching sleep in half hour long fits while fully suited up with catheters installed to deal with the constant lings. Hygenic, but absolutely an abysmal start to my biomass farming. Stardew Valley NEVER made you wear a catheter! Yet, Sable Yurten was used to it, while the Singularity did not favor power armor -opting to field more infantry instead- we were trained in common types like this tech armor.


    Giving us the necessary edge against the lings. Other bioforms began to appear with time, pill bugs like the one I Juggernaut-smashed, and a few corpse collectors who tunneled out of range. Always avoiding our guns and stealing precious biomass. For we could only warp out bodies as Hygieia cleared space on her end and did something she called ¡®sliming the pot¡¯, whatever that was I couldn¡¯t find the bravery to ask so we operated on her timetable.


    Each day net us a hundred biomass from the constant stream of lings and similar bioforms, a constant trickle our tremorsense soon discerned was provided by a pack of cloaked Azhurai scouts funneling organisms into our trench. Like cunning statuettes. Or assholes I wanted to stick twelve plasma balls up.


    Fortunately for the constructs, we lacked the firepower to break through the lings and hunt them down. There wasn¡¯t any point either. Currently we appear to be no threat to them, and each day we held out was another day for us to build up and another day for the Singularity to grind across the continent. Progress reports came in snippets. Radio messages that leaked across channels that we caught wind of. Somehow the brainwashed Earthlings were holding their own against the far superior alien golems and bioforms. Especially considering neither the Novans or Tulverians seemed to be a threat to anyone. Probably the work of bioweapons.


    I shudder, checking the four solarium reactors that power our recharging stations. Most mags are fully powered but enough are empty I still cycle them, stacking supplies for the next ling raid.


    "Ha, eat a dick Azhurai, you''re herding free biomass to me! We will outlast you in this grinding attrition, and grow stronger." I laugh, returning to my HUD for inventory.


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


    All the while Hygieia cooked, making lings, roaches, and the occassional surprise to further develop the core macro tenants. More production, enough to fuel two wars. Eventually those supplies would have to be teleported through the orbital gate, but for now we dug, focusing on the fight we needed to win first.


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


    But those are tangents, each day I listen to Singularity communications, occasionally picking up distress calls or meaningless encouragement from Bazzhole. It all sounds good, like they¡¯re winning, but I know Baz better than most, he¡¯s desperate. Words slowly taking on a more Australian accent as he tries to keep the lies consistent. Spouting propoganda. I haven''t forgotten his cheating, nor forgiven him. My despair has been tempered into a molten blade by the constant fighting, there is only one solution to Bazzhole, and its not a trip back to Earth.


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


    Although... What if I melt Bazzhole down into biomass for the ship? That doesn''t count as a safe trip home... Right?


    [324 / 2000 biomass for ship construction]


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


    Which¡­ Actually might crash the construction industry as a whole. There goes my career as an engineer. Except, how much of the construction industry is left after our draft? How has Earth survived losing all men and women between ages 12 - 42? More than four billion people kidnapped in a second. After flashtraining I know Jim wasn''t piloting a Singularity ship, we don''t have that raw amount of teleportation ability. So where did the Arcship come from? -Nameless-?


    I push those dark thoughts out of my mind in favor of the chitinous structure I¡¯m officially trademarking as biosteel! Jim is less important that Earth, or Mom, or Baz.


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


    Enough raw biomass to build millions of spinolings, maybe even billions, if only we could optimize the biological and technological aspects of their production. Mutarines will always be a tightly limited force, only suitable for engagements where they might make the difference between victory and defeat. Which got me experimenting with Nanofactory designs. Ideally the nanofactories would take highly refined resources and work from there, but it is within their capacity to accept the cruder largesse of America''s current production -at reduced build speed-. A limitation my mishmash of designs try to overcome. One such experiment was now occupied by Specialist Barker.


    Who managed to talk us into providing heavy gauntlets complete with embedded blades and a solarium powered battleaxe. At first glance the stupid thing was little more than a rod made from shredded missile racks, but when Barker turned it on, a halo of golden light articulated from one side of the handle to the opposite, possessing all the cutting power of a lightsaber, a factoid that many lings learned with their last second alive. Cut into ribbons by a howling model of masculine jaw structure. I''m ashamed to admit it, but having a gorgeous warrior protect my life with his own did things for me, an attraction Kerrigan somehow picked up on. Though she didn''t press me on it. Good thing, cause I was not about to explain the birds and bees to an arachnoid-feline-bioweapon-friend.


    Or Hygieia. AKA Barker''s mom. Which considering how she''s a clone of myself would make me the creepy step-aunt. Frick. What am I even thinking?! There has to be at least one decent - AND HUMAN- male on this planet!


    Thankfully, no one presses the topic, allowing me to sulk in silence while the nanofactory works.


    About midnight of the first day, I began to search for heavier suit designs, thousands of variations were contained within the nanofactory''s databanks, yet less than five hundred could be manufactured with only a nanofactory and no supporting gear, ruling out any and all shielded designs. Syrak''s environmental radiation and polluted atmosphere ruled out ninety percent of the remaining options, leaving me with fifty designs to mix and match.


    Which suit me just fine, as there were heavy suits that eschewed shielding for physical armor, and grenade launcher designs. Perfect for filling out the tech tree.


    "My marauders always survived the worst trades, that''s exactly what I need!"


    It took more than twenty four hours before my suit was swapped out for a much heavier version, with built in grenade launchers and armor nearly a foot thick, but most crucially, it had boob space. Finally! My tits could breathe! Fitting inside the suit comfortably, though we were really stretching the line between what a powered suit was and where battle mechs began. In fact, there was enough space that Kerrigan could -and did- join me inside the armor, helping me practice with my newfound telekinesis, or just keeping me company. Something about her presence calmed me, like a childhood blanket or an old friend. How I imagine meeting my step-siblings would be like.


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    I pushed the thought away, building a command and control center within the heavy suit. This was closer to a goliath than a marauder, though it¡¯s function was explosive support and providing a shield generator to the squad, which we lack the necessary reactor components to build.


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


    ¡°Yes yes, I¡¯m sure that¡¯ll teach em.¡± Said Emurine, adjusting another burgeoning design, the reaper jetpack.


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


    Should I have made it four times the speed and four times the reserve to really fit the Spiderman theme? Sure. But naw, fuuuuuuck spiders. The less I think about those the better!


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


    ¡°Locked and loaded, FINALLY! So, what¡¯s the call sergeant? Who gets the cloak? I¡¯d feel a whole lot better with a man-¡± I pause, uncertain how to address Wormface¡¯s gender. Then I realize the whole squad calls him Sergeant Wormface. There is no possible insult I could utter that would phase him, ¡°-ahem, a man I can trust.¡±


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


    ¡°My vote is still Kerrigan. She displaces the least volume so the cloak will last longer on her and she¡¯s physically stronger than the rest of us. A reactor and cloak won¡¯t bog her down.¡±


    A loud raspberry blows Wormy, making my suit¡¯s automated sensor suite (the ¡®head¡¯) pivot to face Kerrigan, despite me keeping eyes forward. The mechanized suit is over ten feet tall, no way could a human stretch to fill it, so the head, hands, and feet are automated. I couldn¡¯t help but grin. At least she waited until he finished speaking this time.


    ¡°Not leaving Pfina!¡± Snapped Kerrigan, folding her arms over the strangest tank top I¡¯d ever seen.


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


    I considered having one of the nanofactories churn out a child¡¯s onesie, the old style with buttoned up butt flap. Ya know, for her tail. But we needed the cycles. Emurine couldn¡¯t turn into a proper reaper without extensive retrofitting which meant his old suit had to be disassembled, rebuilt, and reassembled, doubling the time it took to manufacture and he was only the prototype. Hygieia had already preserved his strain, whatever that meant, for future replication.


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


    Wormface shook his head, ¡°Boss, I¡¯m the sergeant. A reserve synapse for Hygieia. I cannot be the one to split off the group and go silently.¡±


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


    ¡°Symbiote will translate for her.¡± Responded Wormface, grabbing the infested trooper and sitting her down.


    A key part of what he failed to mention was that her current symbiote wasn¡¯t going to do the translation. His helmet slid open and several of the enlarged symbiotes swam out of his face, thick serpents next to the pencil thin worm colony that comprised Wormface¡¯ body. Helen¡¯s helmet slid open, accepting the additional symbiotes with only a little slurping.


    ¡°I¡¯ll never be able to enjoy spaghetti again.¡± I whispered, psychically tapping on a few control buttons to aim my ''head'' elsewhere to avoid gagging.


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


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hell, its about time!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you stopped getting shot


    >Terran Thena: Smartass.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: get shot less


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: shame to waste it


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: exactly!


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you have everything I need


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


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: CREEPY CREEPER


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


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


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Mengsk has supply bunkers...


    >Terran Thena: You''re right... Probably the best use of supply depots in all of starcraft 2. Let''s uhm. Steal that design. :D


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


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


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


    Finally, there are two honest-to-god, roaches. Spectacularly large, a full ten feet tall from foot to carapace top, and over ten feet long. Layers of chitinous armor glimmer with a soft green light, pockets of acid held within the roach''s armor, a biological magazine for the mountain-dew-vomiting roaches. Both creatures crawl over our barricades, moving single file due to the constricting earthworks Barker has thrown up.


    Scores of ling stingers thrust at the roaches. Clinking off armor or spending luck to pierce acid sacs with predictable results. Which is when I finally notice what these roaches lack. The dorsal blades so common to zerg units. Instead they employ carbon-nanotube-reinforced legs to skewer and pierce the lings, even penetrating the burrowed lings with ease. Fifteen dead spinolings and the feral collective gets desperate, unburrowing and fleeing in all directions as the roaches impale eight, stapling the lings with legs and unintentionally pinning themselves. A spinoling with crystal spines falling out as if it has mange, rushes the roaches, discovering their final weapon.


    I see it leap into the air, a ploy to blind the roach. Eight feet becomes seven, then six, then five-


    -the roach strikes faster than lightning. Two conical protrusions rocket forward, slamming into the ling and killing it''s momentum. Roach 2 chitters, shaking it''s butt like a wagging dog and injects twin streams of green into the ling. Howls of agony ripple through the night, warning all bioforms what awaits them here.


    Three minutes later the trench is clear, except a few puddles of green biomass. Rendered into components and ready for warping out. I may love roaches in SC2 -as they carried me all the way from bronze to diamond on their backs alone- but this is a bit too metal for me. Which was my cue to gtfo. I activate my general com link, connecting to everyone.


    ¡°Alright marines. Saddle up and move out!¡±


    Two possessed troopers lead the way. Slipping through our barricade and marching single file down the trench. No lings are present, although many spines crunch beneath our feet. Insoluble remnants of the corpse field. Our most expendable forces take up the vulnerable positions of lead and rear. Darkness swallows us, the perfect cover as we run up and out of the trenches into noman''s land. Heading for the next nearest bunker. Novan 0001, the Technocracy Headquarters of Syrak-9. Conquer that base and they will be eliminated, unable to resupply or claim territory.


    Our suits are dark, running in silenced operations. No electronics break the night. Made unnecessary by Hygieia¡¯s hive mind and the link all creatures, except Kerrigan, seem to share.


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


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


    I¡¯m not shielded.


    ¡°Shit.¡±

 Chapter 32 Marauder vs Siege Tanks. What do you mean ‘Hard Counter?’

    ¡°Scatter!¡± I shout.


    ¡°Take cover and return fire!¡± Wormface howls.


    His orders are sound, but in my infinite wisdom of taking the largest suit, I¡¯ve also become the easiest target! We are in no-man¡¯s-land, the dead space between trenches where the only cover is barbed wire and shell craters.


    Where the hell can I stuff my newly built not-quite-a-mech-but-way-too-heavy-to-be-called-a-marauder-battlesuit behind cover? Both arms come up, double fisting dual launchers I let the automated targeting computer aim and fire, guiding my grenades into Juggernaut center mass. Leg servos engage overdrive, giving me a burst of mechanically aided power to launch myself fifty feet. Arm launchers reload midair, four conical armor piercing warheads this time.


    A blue spear burns the air behind me. Tripping warning lights across my screens, minor damage to the legs, as if the Juggernaut was aiming for my head and didn¡¯t expect me to jump. Just a graze was enough to compromise the inner thigh armor. A direct hit would have penetrated my armor like a million horny frat boys.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get hit.¡± I Pray as a dozen of my guardians open up in the same split second, illuminating the night as only energy weapons can.


    Juggernauts answer in kind, firing energy mounts better suited for spaceship dissuasion. Our collective link shares targeting and life senses, depicting the death of a trooper as [13/13 powered armors] in my mind. Someone just died-


    -and all I can think about is how easy it¡¯ll be to replace them.


    We didn¡¯t even register the loss of biomass.


    Fear locks down my legs, faceplanting me into the dirt and preventing me from moving. Problem is, I¡¯ve landed in a shallow depression, three quarters of my battlesuit is visible. Including my head and both arms. Target locks appear in front of me and I fire two grenades at Juggernaut¡¯s central mass. Technomancy green flares, shielding.


    Ignorant of my fear the HUD adds this new information to its calculations, showing an estimation of the opponent¡¯s shielding. As if we are in a training exercise. 80% shields left. These tanks have shields, and plasma cannons. I open a com channel, marking the leftmost Juggernaut for the squad.


    ¡°Focus fire and bring it down!¡± I scream blasting all our ears.


    Thirteen marines aim at a single target, yellow beams mingle with red bursts from the troopers and my grenades. Just as the Juggernauts fire eight lines of incendiary light. Blue plasma rakes our lines in a strafing slice. Emurine would have been cut in half save for his last second activation of the reaper jetpack.


    He sails into the air, drawing plasma fire up, taking it out of our dirt as Juggernaut sensors detect an incoming enemy and pull their shots to target him. Another cannon fires and Emu-rine vanishes, the beam disintegrating everything from helmet-top to knees. His feet and hands continue through the air, bouncing off one Juggernaut¡¯s shields to land atop the other, with velocity reduced the limbs pass through shielding unhindered.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    [12/12 powered armors]


    He¡¯s dead and gone, but I can¡¯t let that get to me. They incinerated the demo charges too, our best anti-tank weapon. Four grenades burn from my fists, colliding with the Juggernaut and adding a weight of fire to the scales of our remaining lives. Green shielding, so similar to the nuclear missile, flares bright as if to mock our best efforts. Orders echo through my helmet, Barker and two troopers scramble into a run. All other soldiers pouring fire into a single Juggernaut.


    Engines roar to life, the tanks¡¯ tactical computer understanding our aim. The undamaged Juggernaut rolls forward bringing his shields to bear while the Juggernaut with 10% shields remaining begins rolling backwards, out of our line of sight.


    Four pinpricks of blue light become beams of death aimed at Barker. Each beam converges on Barker¡¯s armored chest, carving through two symbiote infested troopers.


    [10/10 powered armors]


    *Thunk Thunk* echoes in my helmet, arm launchers firing automatically. I¡¯m tense. Holding the triggers down. Green shields flare and vanish, the rear Juggernaut exposed. Just in time to be occluded by the lead vehicle.


    I swear, knowing that all our focus fire efforts were in vain. They¡¯ll probably rotate again before we can kill even one tank.


    Barker never stops. While the two troopers with him died he alone remained on all fours despite wearing power armor. An illogical quirk that stumped the Technocracy¡¯s best targeting sensors. They must have assumed he would stand, the suit¡¯s legs are longer and bearcrawling was slower than running not to mention awkward and painful for a default human. But whatever Barker was, seemed not to care about comfort. Throwing off the enemy cyborg¡¯s calculation.


    He tumbles forward face first into the shield and for a moment I fear he¡¯s bought the farm.


    Then a golden halo appears just below the plasma cannons. Two strokes and half the Juggernaut¡¯s armory falls away. Cannons hacked apart by one barking whirlwind.


    Which is when the battle finally began to shift from a slaughter. Scores of plasma rifles arced out of the trenches bubbling across the rear juggernaut¡¯s armor. While the central box of the tank¡¯s armor withstood the onslaught its exposed plasma cannons fell victim and locked open. Energy collected in each cannon, nevermind the weapons had no barrel or vent remaining. Heat began to build, reactor whining until the -once perfectly tuned- guns turned against their reactor and exploded in a fatal feedback loop.


    Barker saw the wave of energy a half second before it hit and dove off the tank somersaulting with his golden axe in hand.


    Spillover from the rear juggernaut washed over the once fresh shielding, now brought low by our squad¡¯s sustained firepower. Each of our improved pulsers was an anti-tank rifle in their own right, and cut the remaining Juggernaut in half lengthwise as its rear disintegrated under sustained barrage.


    My grenades switched to high explosives and lent concussive waves to the stream of plasma, breaking off chunks of flesh interwoven with steel. Part of me always knew the Novan Technomancy was a deplorable union, AI first was an evil mantra, but it was another concept entirely to see the raw meat and extraneous organs grafted onto the hull of a Main Battle Tank. Witnessing what had become of my fellow human before being entombed in steel. Tracks snapped and broke under the withering firepower, twisting in the furnace of sublime plasma and sublimating steel.


    All I could think of, all that I could picture, was my naked body, limbs removed, orifices plugged with tubes, forced to fight my fellow Earthlings. My fingers never let off the triggers. Not until nothing remained of the Juggernaut¡¯s center and each explosion blasted dirt into the air. Even then, it took Barker¡¯s radio to get me to stop.


    ¡°Boss, uh, what are we digging for?¡± He asked, proving that he could in fact make human sounds.


    That snapped me into the present. No one was moving, except for small flashes across no man¡¯s land, within the trench ahead. Where some once helpful force now lay.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it Barker. We found it.¡± I switched to a private command line so only Wormface can hear me. ¡°This isn¡¯t how I wanted to meet the Tulverians, but it''s time. Get Helen to say hello.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir.¡±

 Splinter chapter 32.5 Donning the Armor (Richard’s POV / introduction)

    Everything happened so quickly, one moment I was at my local Gold¡¯s Gym pumping iron to forget my ex, and the next I was in the most lukewarm of room temperature tubes, breathing a fluid that didn¡¯t drown me. Tired and sweaty as I was, the only thing I could manage was to gasp for air, breathing fluid that might have been mistaken for clouds. But certainly not protein shakes, which was a real bummer, taking care of your body starts with feeding it the right fuel. A fact I lived, unlike my ex.


    Ah, I can still remember the argument that separated us, when I ordered two servings of fries and she ate mine first. Instead of the delicious burgers, seasoned with two full servings of vanilla protein powder for extra kick! Which Savannah refused to touch at all. Saying she had to watch her figure, by eating french fries instead!


    Absurd.


    I¡¯ll never understand women.


    Composition of your food translates one to one with our physical composition, fat and starch will make you into a greasy noodle! While net calories affect your net volume! So simple! She¡¯d dumped me then and there. Something about our age gap being excessive, all four years of it. Yeah, Sav was never the brightest, I still can¡¯t forget that time at Walmart when she started sorting the oranges into Hitlers and coloureds. Somehow equating those terms into synonyms for bad and good.


    I laugh, snorting cryotube fluid instead.


    In truth, it was deeply calming. Tantric even, if I died here, there would be nothing left to worry about. Savannah was no longer my concern, but neither was my logistical office, no more stupid work meetings with Linda from HR, always parading ¡®problems¡¯ around the office like each one was the second coming of Jesus. Not dealing with her nonsense would be heaven on Earth¡­


    Except, I should be drowning right now. Lungs work, moving fluid in and out, breathing as normal. Like floating on a cloud without a pain or care. Even my sore muscles relaxed, somehow intuiting that all their metabolic needs were being satisfied. Then the man named Jim appeared with those dark eyes offering me a strange deal.


    I should have refused him.


    I took the deal.


    Now, only days later I sat in a steel wingback, squishing the plush arms. Metal contours to my touch, cushioning every inch of my existence with luxury. It¡¯s kinda like if someone made a memory foam chair out of steel, impressive, yet somewhat crude appearing. So much of this technology was similar, comprehensible, so boring, mundane, tools humans were used to using-


    -and completely abhorrent. For I have seen the outside world, the blasted craters and broken fortresses of Syrak-9. Remnants of ten thousand warring civilizations, one of which I now lead. Damn Jim¡¯s deal.


    Six shouting computer screens flooded me with information, similar to monitors, except these were projections, each floating midair without assistance. Casualty counts scrolled down a vertical screen while three central monitors played FPVs of troopers fighting and dying, of equipment going dark and my soldiers forced to choose between retreating to save themselves or fighting with blades and grenades to protect the gear that would save them tomorrow. While a screen to my far right plays a highlight reel of executions.


    All irregulars must die, for the Holy Singularity to prosper. Those who cannot accept the flash training are defective organisms. A cancer. And I am the scalpel. These executions occurred days ago, evidenced by the timestamps attached to each, this is the AI reminding me of my duty, and a threat. He holds the power to play an endless loop of these clips, replaying shots of my parent''s executions. Carried out by my own flashtrained hand.


    I¡¯ll never forget what the Singularity made me do.


    Nor will I allow them to spend other¡¯s lives so needlessly.


    ¡°General, my analysis indicates we should commence a full retreat. Pull all forces back to the edge of the EMP zone and attempt to hold the line there.¡± Says the Artificial Intelligence known as Bastion.


    It is my warden, advisor, jailor, doctor, matchmaker, and everything in between. But I only call him my enemy. One day soon, I¡¯ll frag his core. I don¡¯t know how, I don¡¯t know when, but I swear to god I will make him pay.


    After I protect others from the same hellish dreams I suffer. One glance at each of my six screens tells me all the information I need to know. The battle is unsalvageable, it¡¯s gone to shit across fifty miles of trench networks, each less fortified than the last.


    ¡°Why give me shit advice when you already know the better solution?¡± I snap, ¡°Conduct a fighting retreat to our preoffensive lines. Cover the retreat with selective artillery bombardments. Set them out far enough to miss our retreating forces. Oh, and aim a few at those Azhurai cunts. Keep shelling the spire so they can¡¯t drop their shields.¡±


    Bastion¡¯s emotionless voice answers immediately, a quirk of super intelligence. He can process my words faster than I can say them. Which is super annoying and always makes him sound like a smartass.


    ¡°The Azhurai have the galaxy¡¯s finest low pass shielding. They can exit their shields simultaneously with our shell¡¯s impact. We would only be wasting-¡±


    ¡°BITCH, SHELL THEIR HOUSE! It¡¯s about sending a message Bastion! A warning that we can touch them just as easily as they touch us.¡± I shout, wishing for a shoe to pound against his mainframe.


    No such luck in this bunker. The only foot garments for me are various slippers, as if I¡¯m on suicide watch. Because I am. Tis a rational consideration when you consider the stresses of our devil¡¯s bargain.


    ¡°As you command General. However, a fighting retreat would result in an unacceptable loss of territory, and severe casualties. In excess of ten thousand humans, and more importantly, three bioweapons. Including your primary.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­¡± is all I say.


    Bastion is a bit too clever, getting me heated before threatening my life. My rank of General is only supported by my ability to pilot one of the rare demons this AI calls ¡®bioweapons¡¯. Bastion thought two steps ahead, correctly guessing my four reactions before I ever heard the question. Not too difficult, given my golden handcuffs and this sealed bunker. Both immutable variables that lock me into fixed paths. I can wallow here while people die. Or act.


    I would not have been considered for this role if I could ever be content sitting on my ass. Bastion knew that. And I knew he knew. We can¡¯t afford to lose even a single bioweapon, not with the Azhurai finally playing their hand.


    This was all so similar to the Syrian civil war, my first and last deployment overseas after that I found my way to ¡®logistical support¡¯ a nice way of saying liaison between frontline doorkickers and the agencies that controlled their funding back home. A cushy job for one of the rare few recruits who actually fulfilled an 18X contract at seventeen years old. It¡¯s easy to lie on your paperwork when dad and grandpa were both Alumni of the Special Warfare Center and School. A family tradition started by my grandpa in WWII and continued by my father in Vietnam.


    My mind and body had been honed by the combined veterancy of the American military industry. Bastion wasn¡¯t shit compared to them. Let him think I was an obedient dog, a curr too stupid to plot.


    ¡°Is the Field Marshal really so incompetent?¡± I ask, gesturing for one of the attending doctors to display his vitals on screen.


    She salutes in Singularity fashion, raising one arm in the vulgar gesture. God fucking damnit.


    ¡°Don¡¯t salute! Just do it! Then you can fuck off.¡± I snap, immediately regretting those words.


    She clamors to comply, throwing up vitals and moving away, almost jogging out of the room. I watch her bounce away, visible through the semi transparent screens.


    The salute is infamously recognizable to an Earthling, but possesses entirely separate connotations within the Holy Singularity. Still, it feels like I¡¯m getting flipped off each and every time. I should not have yelled, she only did as the flashtraining dictated. It¡¯s a high compliment within the Singularity.


    There are six doctors, all wearing white lab coats and stiletto heels. Odd, but they are remnants from the last ¡®general¡¯, holdovers from before the bioweapon burned out his cerebrum. To say he had a type was an understatement, the six flashtrained doctors were so similar they could have been clones. Very, shapely clones.


    One of which is climbing into the disposal chute. About to commit suicide in penance for the crime of saluting me.


    ¡°Oh shit! STOP! Do not harm yourself!¡± I shout.


    She looks back at me with blank eyes. Flashtrained eyes. Suddenly I want to push her down the chute, wish that she would slide away and be broken down into molecules, just so I¡¯d never have to see those empty spheres again. There is no personality there, nothing left of the human she once was. At some point all memories and individual thoughts were wiped clean.


    ¡°Hey, Doc. Come back, I¡¯m annoyed at the circumstances, not you.¡± I say, schooling my voice into the blade of command.


    The sort of genteel weapon you use against particularly stupid recruits so they won¡¯t stick their dick in a pencil sharpener. It¡¯s effective here, causing the spurned woman to climb out of the chute.


    I keep an eye on her, making damn sure she won¡¯t try anything when I look away. Given her emotionless state it¡¯s impossible to read into her actions but she joins the line of other ¡®doctors¡¯. All flashtrained Earthlings.


    The casualty list begins to scroll faster, displaying more and more casualties at an ever increasing rate. Bastion¡¯s doing, his way of manipulating me back onto the straight and narrow path of a warrior general. We¡¯re losing, and I have the power to turn the tide.


    ¡°Fine.¡± I snap, turning to all the doctors and saluting them.


    The gesture pains me deeply, a wound that cuts sixfold as they return the salute.


    ¡°Hail our conquering General!¡± They say in unison.


    ¡°Yeah yeah. Baz and Ashley Baldtree¡¯s vitals are erratic, go see to their needs with the utmost care. Losing either one of them at this junction is unacceptable, employ every tool and resource we have to preserve them.¡± I order.


    Ignoring the runway models as they leave my chambers. Six screens hold my focus until I hear the door hiss shut under its own power. Troop locations, equipment caches, bunkers we have claimed, dilapidated facilities that we occupy, maps, and most importantly the locations of our three bioweapons. Information I need to memorize now, while I am still in full control of my own faculties. Before I have to share cognitive load with the thing out there. The weapon beyond this prison.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    If only I could get it inside this bunker, Bastion would be doomed. Quite literally inviting a rhinoceros into the server room.


    ¡°Alright Bastion, crack open the pod.¡± I order, stripping off my smock and sweatpants.


    Cables hiss, fluids cycling into the pod where they will maintain my body in a sort of waking sleep. I¡¯ve only been outside the armor for two days, not enough time for my eyebrows to grow back. As a pilot I could probably convince Bastion to make me a real wardrobe, but what would be the point? No one can infiltrate this bunker. No one will ever meet me face to face, other than the same female doctors who pulled my naked ass out of the first cryotube. No way in hell am I dressing up for those flashtrained mannequins.


    Sterile white floor cools my soles, tempered only by the mean thermodynamics of the alloy ladder, polished to a reflective sheen by thousands of passing feet, their trace oils protecting from oxidation across the centuries of war.


    How many ¡®generals¡¯ once trode this same path? How many minds has Heavy burned out? Will today be my last-


    -I shove the thought away. Pausing on the ladder and breathe. Inhale, exhale, repeat. This is war, and I will win. Just like Syria.


    My heart flutters, just like it did the first time I held Savannah¡¯s hand. Such a simple gesture, meaningless to her, and everything to me. Odd how simple actions can touch others.


    ¡°Alright Heavy. Let¡¯s go. Bastion, Command authorization Richard Antonio Ziusudra.¡±


    ¡°Authorization accepted, good hunting General Ziusudra.¡± Bastion answers.


    I¡¯m standing above the tube, exhaling as much gaseous volume from my lungs as humanly possible before pencil diving into the pod. Careful to displace the least amount of fluid. My hairless body glides through the fluid like a waxed surfboard, and I inhale deeply, filling both lungs completely.


    The hatch above is closed and then screwed shut by my hands, twelve spins of the hatch¡¯s wheel seal me into a lightless command pod. Screens fill the interior, all options for me to communicate to different regiments or battalions, and even to Bastion himself. Unlike most cryotubes this one is opaque, with an obsidian crystal sheath to repel all distractions. A neural jack swims into my neck, plugging into the port located between my C6 and C7 vertebrae, connecting my mind with the bioweapon¡¯s.


    ¡®So soon?¡¯ It whispers, voice audible to only me.


    Bastion cannot hear these voices, few can. Fewer still can withstand them.


    ¡°Connection established. This is General Ziusudra to Heavy containment unit. You¡¯re surrounded. Looks like the Conglomerate thought they might ambush you while I slept. Let¡¯s prove to them why humanity is destined to rule this world. Deploy me.¡± I order, closing my eyes and sinking into his waiting arms.


    ¡®Yes old friend. Your strength is needed once again, let us carve a path so bloody that the stars marvel at Humanity¡¯s will.¡¯ I think.


    Our body is trapped in a mesh of antigrav and non-newtonian fluids, all designed to prohibit movement and prevent a contained creature from building any sort of momentum. Necessary precautions for Heavy, and the most claustrophobic thing I¡¯ve ever felt. This is a hundred times more restrictive than being buried in cement. At least then you could still wiggle your toes!


    ¡°General? It¡¯s only been two days! Piloting a bioweapon continuously will have deleterious effects on-¡±


    ¡°Yes yes, consider me warned. Look at it this way, I sleep more soundly after a workout, so after I work myself to death, I¡¯ll have the best sleep of my life.¡±


    ¡°Uhm¡­ Yessir.¡± Is the containment unit¡¯s only response.


    I laugh, understanding my orders are outside their flashtrained comprehension.


    Time and space melt away with the subtle disorientation of one tenth gravity. My feet come free first, sinking out of the containment block and into the cool mud of a trench, then come our knees, hips, feeling in the hands -we can move again-, together Heavy and I check our pistol by feel, all ten magazines fully recharged by our solarium core. Next come the stomach, elbows, torso and finally the head, activating our sensors. Vision comes into focus first, squads rush silently about our oratory scanners not yet active, soldiers duck in fear, terrified of us yet doing their duty. Defending the trench. Balls of yellow arc over our heads, connecting with unlucky troopers who lose hands or heads to the suppressive fire.


    A body thuds into the ground at our feet, the first sound our ears hear. Heavy flexes every muscle, supercharging the solarium core into a pulse that envelopes use and all around us in a protective bubble. Absorbing dozens of Azhurai shots, long enough for the fleeing soldiers to rally.


    Our HUD activates displaying our shields and active armor.


    Fully charged.


    Fully repaired.


    Fully armed.


    We must not lose focus, we must repel a strategic advance. We order the minimap open, filling our entire vision with red triangles, depicting those we must cull. Blue circles drop and vanish, dwindling in brightness as their vitality fades, those are our individual responsibilities slowly dying.


    Together our minds scream one word, empowering ourselves with the strength of madness inherent to each bioweapon.


    UNACCEPTABLE


    Power flows into our guns, raw energy to supercharge our strikes and shots. Two minds blur together, unified yet universally opposed. One lost to the conquering high, the other to our strategic mission.


    Two steps, one for Heavy, one for me, and we leap thirty feet vertically, rising ten feet above the trench, arming weapons as we arc through the air. Making us the target, pulling fire away from our soldiers.


    Mud splats beneath our feet, still rising in protest as we run forward, faster than death itself. Our movements trigger alarms in the Azhurai forces, as a coordinated whole -so sharply in tune one could be forgiven for mistaking them as a collective mind- they aim at me. Scores of yellow energy burn the air around me, enough to annihilate a Juggernaut. Fearsome weapons that make our hearts thunder.


    Worthy foes.


    ¡°FIGHT.¡± We shout. ¡°Fight for your lives!¡±


    The order is meant to bolster my charges, to surround them in a shield of temporary solarium. Fragments of energy made physical and anchored to a relative position, shielding that will decay over time.


    Instead the shield anchors to us, conjuring a metaphysical dome fifty feet in radius. Immediately rendering the enemy¡¯s fire impotent as golden shielding negates yellow photons.


    Heavy yearns for melee combat, a rite of conquest I grant him; turning all control of our hands and arms over. Such is our bond, I allow him to fight, he allows me to live. A give and take relationship between conquering demon and logical man. His barb of choice is a sort of flanged mace, four feet long and covered in alloyed teardrops, a coarse weapon for a brutish bioweapon.


    My cue to retreat, mentally drawing back into the support systems and targeting arrays. We are both soldiers, have both taken lives before our arrival on Syrak, but this sort of domination is Heavy¡¯s realm alone. I¡¯m glad to say only he has beaten another human being to death with his bare fists.


    Our battlecries call the troopers out of hiding. In a flash hundreds of red particles connect with Azhurai shields, destroying the unshielded scouts. Most of these constructs are feeble, small things like foxes and rabbits, designed to explore and catalog the world, not gnaw on its jugular.


    Heavy moves before I can think, a head flies, then limbs. Too fast. One blow of the mace fells the six legged poodle before me, breaking the fine runic engraving of its necromantic form. We cartwheel sideways, evading ten bolts of energy.


    All heavy¡¯s doing. For I am commanding the quad barreled autocannon, targeting individual golems and firing in two round bursts, one to break their shields and another to destroy the construct''s physical body. Break them into wreckage or obliterate the solarium reactor nestled within their marble ribbons. Their clockwork hearts.


    *Chug Chug*


    The autocannon roars. Broken shield and a twelve legged doberman is left in crumbs. We¡¯re gone again, narrowly dodging a hippo that lobs bucket sized balls of plasma our way. A heavy construct, double shielded and thrice armed.


    *Smash*


    Heavy crushes the hippoid creature, breaking shields and punching through the golem¡¯s lower jaw. I know what he intends, yet knowing makes the act no more palatable. He grasps the lower jaw, kicking the scout¡¯s nose and pulling in a brutal jerk that rends mandible from face. Shredding the plasma cannon contained within. These constructs appear as marble or brass, yet I know they transcend human technology and are far more durable than our aerospace titaniums. But my mission is to shoot, not gawk.


    *Chug chug*


    These rounds claim two scouts, quadrupeds without shields. I don¡¯t recognize their forms, for they take after some sort of alien beast with squid faces, pangolin scales, and a fox¡¯s fluffy tail.


    Five miles away yellow lightning paints the sky gold, heralding the Bladed Berserker, Baz¡¯s bioweapon.


    ¡®Our brother lives!¡¯ Shouts heavy, leaping above two constructs and braining them both in one superhuman strike.


    ¡®Fight on.¡¯ I answer, feeding him a trickle of rich solarium.


    We¡¯re in another trench, our pistol in hand. Molten plasma boils forth in a beam that arcs around shielding, firing a constant stream of lava that melts foes, burns through shields and can be maintained via reloading any one of the three magazines.


    Combat becomes a blur, each strike fading into the next as Heavy plies his trade, working the enemy like a seamstress works the loom. Satisfaction fills our minds as the constructs die by the score. Just another task, one more battle for us to win. We roll up a ramp, stowing the pistol and racing into no man¡¯s land. Just in time to see a wall of cannons appear, glowing yellow orbs rising out of cover.


    Eighty constructs fire, all shots aimed at myself, twenty rounds connect, dropping shields to half. So close to a decent ambush, but it¡¯s only one side, they have only made an I not an L, and failed to employ heavy weapons against us. The fools.


    We cartwheel backwards, laughing as supporting fire becomes unfriendly, annihilating ten enemy constructs in one maneuver.


    Distant thunder boom booms off the Azhurai Spire. Our artillery finally weighing in on this discussion. An ammo counter appears for me alone, dreadfully low on strategic level artillery, with only a few modern shells to fire before we are reduced to using Earthling hardware.


    I give the logistical order to switch while Heavy dashes forward, shifting all momentum into a single blow that tears a golem in two. Logistical decisions blur with tactical ones, eating up the hours of night until the dawn rises. Not that we care, Heavy¡¯s sensor suite is fully capable regardless of external sensors, even capable of operating in the void.


    Our troopers gain new strength with the dawn. Reinforcements arrive, roused from our hidden repository buried deep below the Headquarters. A gift from Jim, paid for by some nameless benefactor. Two billion Earthlings have been flashtrained for our fight.


    A number Heavy and I struggle to comprehend. Why give us so many? Why deploy them all to Syrak. We¡¯ll have to burn through them at a thousand a day just to feed them all. Not to mention the guns! We don¡¯t have one tenth the number of weapons required nor the manufacturing capacity to outfit so many. Not unless we plan to capture multiple foundries.


    Heavy surges at the prospect. Tulveria is dead, slain by Ashley¡¯s vanished bioweapon. Next up, the Novan Technocracy, and when they fall we shall encircle the Azhurai, laying siege until the Collective are purged from our rear. Only then shall we be able to secure Syrak-9 against future landings. Not since the first landing has any faction conquered half the continent.


    Heavy smashes humanoid golem, marble, gold, and lupine shards linger like fallen snow. Almost like a werewolf in golden briefs. Or a Tauren Marine from SC2, except the outhouse escape rocket exploded instead of flying into space. I always loved that easter egg.


    Casualties and confirmed kills scroll through my pod¡¯s many screens, with every manner of radar, lidar, echolocation, and laser rangefinder sending me collated data. We¡¯ve broken the Azhurai momentum. Snapped their spine in two with Baz¡¯s rampant slaughter cutting off reinforcements. They¡¯ll have to fight through him to reach us.


    Heavy and I roar with laughter.


    Good fucking luck. We think in unison.


    Our local radar shows only blue spheres, allies, no red triangles. Heavy has won, and now fulfils his end of our bargain, retreating into the background while I take the forefront. Cold dawn glistens across my armor, bringing with it the distinct taste of lethal radiation. The command pod around me fades like a distant memory until I exist only in the open battlefield. Fully subsumed into the armor.


    If only we had two more pilots, then we could have swept the planet.


    I move into the trenches, taking a few moments to rally the wounded troopers. They salute my approach, trembling with fear as if hell has risen from their own throats.


    ¡°Do not salute me in combat.¡± I order.


    ¡°Get the wounded out of here, all other forces, we must make our Field Marshal proud. For the Singularity of Man!¡± I shout, repeating the mantra as we march through the trenches. Gathering a wave of twenty thousand troopers and not one blasted heavy weapon.


    Shiiiiiittttt.


    Heavy has his work cut out, as does Baz. Thousands of earthling names cross my vision, Bastion¡¯s doing. He is playing the casualties list, reporting all sixc thousand human beings died in the past four hours. The asshole.


    If only we could capture the Technocracy¡¯s foundry, then we could build guardian tanks, heavy vehicles designed to shield light infantry and allow them to go head to head against more advanced foes.


    But there ane none I trust to command these Earthlings.


    ¡°Bastion, display casualties incurred from wig outs.¡± I order, seeing two thousand soldiers who broke. Two thousand people, from your average barista, to pet groomers, and even the occasional ice cream man, all civilians unprepared to deal with combat.


    They broke, and were recursively retrained. AKA Shot in the face until death.


    Heavy memorizes each name, filing them away into a folder we call ¡®Bastion¡¯s sins¡¯. One day I will find a way to use those wig outs, it will only take a single irregular, a wig out who remembers their Earth life and the flashtraining. Such a woman could halve our losses¡­


    ¡®Why did you think woman?¡¯ Heavy asks.


    ¡®Did I? Oh¡­ uh, weird. Not too many women served so it really should be man¡­¡¯ I answer, plodding into the dawn.


    Collective quadrupeds begin to appear, giving Heavy an opportunity to resurface. They¡¯ll slow our progress, but Heavy must be appeased.


    Those are my last thoughts before I once again fade into the background, left to stew on the enemy slain and our own casualties. Four thousand constructs destroyed by my hand. Six thousand human lives lost.


    Six thousand I failed to save.

 Chapter 33 What Does a Ten Foot Long Iguana Want?

    I may have sounded calm, but every part of my soul hammered under the beating sledge that was my heart. Like a pulsar star spinning 720 degrees per second.


    I¡¯ve been kidnapped, blown up, rebuilt with zergling legs, and mentally schismed into three people, at this point nothing at all should surprise me. So when Helen stands up, raises both hands and starts walking towards the alien gunline I don¡¯t bat an eye. Not even when her faceplate rotates backwards into her armor to reveal a Singularity gasmask, or when she pulls off the gasmask underneath and shows her true face to the iguanas.


    Bad move, as the radiation levels up here will give her cancer. A disease I¡¯m not entirely sure her symbiotes -however many of them she now houses- can cure.


    But when the frantic mooing of a cow in heat echoes over the bombed out landscape I have to stop and think, What. The. Hell. Humans do not make noises like THAT! It''s deep and throaty, with the unpleasant resonance of a cell phone vibrating inside your ears. So similar to a nosey fly, yet improbably more baritone.


    I scan my command screens, checking on lifesigns before stopping at Kerrigan¡¯s. She isn¡¯t part of the Collective¡¯s hive mind or even a grown adult and we just lost four of our friends. After the past three days of fighting side by side, they aren¡¯t acquaintances any longer. I open a tight beam to her, tapping buttons with my newly acquired telekinetic power. Under any other circumstances this would be a miracle, yet now, I swallow. Scared for what violence I¡¯m teaching my friend.


    ¡°Hey Kerrigan, you okay?¡±


    ¡°A okay.¡± Answers Kerrigan, sounding almost chipper. ¡°Do we blast the lizards next? Wormbrain is icky, making funny sounds, like a defective. Red says it''s better to put down the defectives early, otherwise it makes it harder later after you¡¯ve gotten attached to their derpiness¡­ But¡­¡± She pauses, as if thinking. ¡°The lizards are talking back, and I can¡¯t smell them from here so they might not be stinky.¡± She adds after a moment.


    My shoulders tighten with each word, Kerrigan has no sense of life¡¯s value. Calling someone a defective for being different makes my bowels clench. What does she think of my mediocre psychic abilities? Without her I¡¯m nothing. But more concerningly, how does she view herself?


    ¡°Uhh, not yet. Helen is just talking, doing exactly what we ordered. She is not defective.¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡±


    I¡¯m not sure if this newer, older, more understandable Kerrigan is an improvement.


    Combat seems to bring out everything I hate, a coldness that no one deserves. Like an aged cynic whose managed to steal the light of a child''s hope. I want to wrap her in a hug, somehow regress her to a more innocent age.


    But we can¡¯t turn back time and unwind the alterations done to her genome like a -nameless- can. Nor is combat avoidable. For the sake of her sanity I need to get Kerrigan somewhere safe, away from the frontlines. Before she becomes the bioweapon ¡®Red¡¯ meant her to be.


    Alaea could take her, I''m sure she would be happy there, able to fulfil the purpose she was made for and augment Alaea''s psychic ability. There is no doubt in my mind that Alaea would treat her like a younger sister-


    -Slobbering hoots interrupt my thoughts. Waves of Tulverian cranial crests poke above the trench to our front and left. There is no mistaking it, we¡¯re in open ground while Tulverians have us in a classic L shaped ambush. No matter which direction we move fifty iguanas will have a direct shot up our rears. Methods of retreat run through my mind, I can teleport the soldiers out but not myself. Besides, I¡¯m the largest target several times over.


    Someone else should pilot this oversized bullet catcher. Without additional shielding to accompany the increased targeting priority a marauder just isn''t the right tool. Plus, we have no medivacs for instant repairs and these arm grenades seem no more effective than pulser fire, the final nail in the marauder ''s coffin. A redesign will be required.


    Helen chops the air with a knife hand, emphatically hooting at an unusually large crocodilian. Who matches her flailing arms with equally angry finger gestures. Part of me could swear he is giving her the double bird, both middle fingers. Although that could just be the string cheese shaped iguana fingers.


    Wait, Floridians eat iguanas all the time. Would it be weird to eat a Tulverian?


    One hard shake clears my mind, we are NOT exploring that path. Why would I even consider it? Then I remember my fingernails, Hygieia''s warning about Collective cells entering my brain. Of Alaea''s nanites floating through my bloodstream. I''ve become something far more than human.


    My heart skips a beat, equally scared and excited.


    Once more I repeat my ward against evil, ¡°work the problem¡±. Of the killed soldiers I warp their remains and surviving weaponry back to Alaea and Hygieia, more biomass for the Swarm and a few small pieces of gear for the nanofactories to salvage. That is their primary purpose after all, repairing and modifying damaged gear, a task half their internal volume is devoted to.


    >Terran Thena: Emurine is dead.


    I sense Hygieia nibble at his wrist, orally sequencing the DNA. The once appalling act somewhat mundane.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: lucky for you


    >Matriarch Hygieia: im babysitting a straingineer


    >Matriarch Hygieia: want this bird reincarnated?


    >Terran Thena: It''s creepy that you can just bring him back... How much will he remember?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: everything


    >Matriarch Hygieia: up to a minute after his death


    >Terran Thena: A minute AFTER?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: well duh how else would you convince an immortal to stop getting fragged?


    The logic is flawless, yet so unbelievably inhumane. I chuckle.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: already started


    >Matriarch Hygieia: incubation complete in one hour


    ¡ª


    -In Hygieia¡¯s underground biopool network-


    Zazathur takes a nibble of Emurine¡¯s disembodied hand, teeth crunching through bone and flesh like a stick of fresh Twix.


    ¡°Mmmm. Inefficient. Unoptimized strain. Cannot fly. Claws insufficient. Beak made for yapping not tearing. Can improve. Terror bird strain, fast fighter with greater penetration and trauma on the attack, sonic attack, more expensive than Zergling.¡± Says the Straingineer.


    ¡°Shut up and make me a damn Emu-rine clone! Your terror bird isn¡¯t going to be more efficient than stealing plasma weaponry and armor from the enemy.¡± I snap, speaking with Hygieia¡¯s voice.


    I can feel Zazathur roll his eyes.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Always so snippy. Quality takes time-¡± He begins.


    ¡°-Time we do not have! Get to work, win this battle and optimize later.¡± I interrupt.


    ¡°Victory is supreme.¡± Says Zazathur, sliding into a pool of biomass.


    We¡¯ve tunneled back to the ship where a growing number of roaches and spinolings strip biomass from the beached whale of its corpse. Even as we bicker a roach vomits acid across the ship, sucking up the end product a few moments later and trundling off to refill a biopool. So much damage was inflicted on Shipmind it¡¯s a wonder anything at all landed, a wonder I¡¯m deeply grateful for.


    ¡°You¡¯ve given us a chance.¡± I say, already formulating a full squad of Emurines.


    These will be somewhat improved, purpose built for Alaea¡¯s new reaper armor. Lighter, faster, and with bigger payloads. Thena will absolutely love this shit!


    Yet there is never enough material. Two biomass expended for a single biomass gained. What with the scavengers, and roaches, and biopools, and fungi farms, and-


    -it never seems to end.


    Against energy weapons it is all too easy to lose more biomass than we have. Good thing we can grow fungi along the ceilings and walls above our biopools, creating a fuzzy carpet that will feed our warriors...


    The fungi farm is so similar to creep...


    "Ooohhhh." I gasp.


    "ZAZATHUR! ZAZ-A-THUR! I''VE GOT AN IDEA!" I shout, diving into the biopool after him.


    ¡ª


    -Thena''s perspective-


    The marines who can reload, do so. While Spiderman marks individual Tulverians based off their battle damage and veterancy. Plasma burns, scars from bullets or bladed weapons, are all cataloged by his plethora of peepers. Without deviation all Tulverians carry fresh wounds or old scars, marking one and all as veterans of many battles, a truth that is evidenced by their varying sizes and scales. These basic warriors adapt to pressures, on a high gravity world they grow taller and stronger, if one gets shot they''ll release pheromones that trigger a hardening response in other''s scales creating thicker and stronger armor for their kin over several weeks. Constant biological responses to fighting is how -mostly nude- crocodilians can stand against Techno Tanks and the endless troopers.


    Until I arrived. Now this fighting force has seen a constant stream of combat without relief or respite and it shows in their sunken eyes, hidden below taut skin.


    They¡¯re starving. Makes sense¡­ While it wouldn''t hurt me to eat an iguana leg, no way would that be my first or second choice for lunch.


    I laugh, once more hoping we taste like shit. Then scroll through our list of supplies back in supply bunker 0002, careful to filter out any chocolate bars.


    Negotiations are going nowhere. I guess that''s a good effect, considering we are enemies, but the sun will rise soon and all of us could die to Singularity spotters. Time to wrap this up.


    ¡°Hey, Helen, tell them we¡¯ll feed them if they help us clear the last bunker.¡±


    Her hooting stops immediately as she turns back to glare at me. Too bad most of her face is lost to the night sky.


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to talk them out of eating us! Can we actually feed them?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Hygieia has a few farms up and running.¡±


    "She just started those. It''ll be days before we see a return and weeks before they''re fully operational!" Helen snaps.


    "Sure, which is why we need to capture the Novan bunker and build farms there. Gotta macro it out." I answer.


    An armored hand rubs her temples, teeth grinding against each other before she turns back and squawks a series of trills that the human throat should not be capable of replicating. A pause comes from the trench, nervous ripples ducking cranial crests and sturdy tails. Two Iguanas scramble out of the trench, one unusually thick and conspicuously unscarred.


    ¡°Huh, never would have guessed fatass generals exist in every race, including iguana.¡± I mutter, recognizing this specific Tulverian as a target for assassination or capture under our flashtrained orders.


    General Scaley¡¯s throatsac inflates, bulging like a ballooned double chin, a sight soon complimented by at least a dozen tongue folds appearing in his maw, rolling over each other as they fought to presume the correct shapes. It looks like a roach gargling squids. The wrong type of squirming with an unpleasantly hard exterior.


    Which is when Wormface¡¯s collective mind educates us all, Tulverians operate under a caste system, with officers being a selectively bred and highly refined variant, same as their engineers and a far cry from their soldiers. Though where the line of gene altering begins and the selective eugenics programs end are unfathomable to a human, and most Tulverians for that matter. He uses the Collective''s nomenclature for the individual, designating their function as identity, making it an ambassador -general.


    He opens his mouth to speak, and I¡¯m immediately annoyed by his deplorably bastardized accent. Thrice translated from Tulverian, to Singularity standard, into English -compliments of our flashtraining- it leaves a confusing taste in our ears.


    Making me wish Helen was still hooting.


    ¡°Ahem, I zee you ave undertaken to mirror our speech, shouldn¡¯t have troubled yourself az I am ze most capable tranzlator. What a truly glorious day zis is! A day zat shall be remembered in ze annals of history as ze moment when ze superior intellect of Tulveria prevails yet again!" He pauses dramatically, as if expecting applause, then continues, gesturing grandly with both webbed hands, "Consider zis, why continue zis futile struggle? Ze odds are, how you say, catastrophique for you. Zere iz no shame in bowing before ze paragon of military excellence zat stands before you in ze form of General Splendeur! In fact, I would say it iz an honor to cross beams!"


    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be shitting me. These translators aren¡¯t worth a goddamned thing! Copying an accent, what bull-frog-shit is this?¡± I mutter to myself before climbing out of my insufficient hidey-hole.


    Plasma rifles track my every move.


    "I''m in command here. Now that we can communicate on even footing." I say, trying not to wince.


    ¡°Boss, what are you doing? Let Helen work!¡± Coms Wormface, his tone bordering precipitously on an order.


    I activate external speakers so all can hear.


    ¡°My name is Sable Yurten, of the Holy Singularity. I have a personal vendetta against the Novans and have no desire to oppose you. Should you choose to surrender I shall guarantee your survival."


    Both Tulverian negotiators hoot rhythmically, sounding like bongo drums. Laughter. Not that I needed a translator for that.


    "Alright, we do this the hard way." I snap, getting their attention. "Let me give you lizzards a value lesson in negotiation. The first rule is never answer the question, ¡®What could I do that would utterly destroy you¡¯. A card you just played when you left that trench. Pretend to be overconfident, but no general leads a combat patrol from the front. You should e back at base, safe behind shields and a mountain of rock. But you''re here cause there is no where else to go.¡± I say directly, coming to stand in front of the two iguanas.


    Up close I can see the smaller one, a dark scaled soldier with double the armor and a sort of blue tortoise shell on its back. A personal shield generator if I had to wager a bet. Neither speaks, but fatty watches me from hooded eyes, laughing at each word. He knows where we stand, he can kill me, but not the Singularity as a whole.


    ¡°General¡­ Splendeur,¡± I begin, trying not to choke on pompous lizard tail, ¡°Cut the shit. You¡¯re only out here cause someone cracked open your central bunker and kicked you out. Without resupply you¡¯re already dead. How much food do you have left?¡± I hold up a spare pulse rifle magazine to display what it is, then underhand and toss it to his aid. ¡°A gift, we are familiar with Tulverian tech, and can synthesize something edible for you. I can''t guarantee it''ll suit your refined palates, but it will keep you alive.¡±


    The general catches himself mid-laugh, sputtering to reign in his pride, face a mask of feigned offense. "Such bluntness! Truly, ze mark of your rustic charm." He straightens, brushing at an imaginary speck from his scales. "But let me assure you, Madame, zat Tulveria does not ''last''¡ªTulveria endures! Resupply or no, we remain resourceful."


    His eyes flicker momentarily to the tossed magazine, then back, smile tightening. "I appreciate ze gesture, zis is no mere barter! If I were to entertain your assistance, it would be a partnership of equals, n''est-ce pas? For surely, your success depends on having ze unmatched brilliance of G¨¦n¨¦ral Splendeur as your ally."


    I look him up and down, even in a losing position he is desperate to save face, could be an iguana thing, or just your average dick measuring. Hard to tell. Wait, do iguanas measure dicks, or tails?


    No matter, it would be a simple matter to force his hand into servitude. My ¡®head¡¯ spins 360 degrees, scanning the surroundings for thermal readings and detecting almost a hundred Tulverians in the surrounding trenches.


    A hundred plasma rifles.


    >Terran Thena: Hey¡­ I know you started some fungus farms. How are those coming along?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: dafuq you want that for?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: who are you trying to feed?


    >Terran Thena: Glad we understand each other, 110 Tulverians.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: maybe if I had a month and three fourths of their bodies!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: tryin to build a ship here!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: how much biomass should we waste?!


    She confirms my own inner thoughts. A snap decision must be made right now. Lie to the Tulverians and secure their aid, or be honest and risk fighting them here.


    ¡°Over a hundred survivors. That¡¯s impressive General, given your unfortunate circumstances that is more than my farming projects could hope to feed. We have a farm, and can offer you our spare rations, enough food for roughly double our number, but only if you help us take the Novan Bunker. Tonight. Before their power is restored.¡±


    Greed flashes in his bulbous eyes, counting us as ten strong. I can see his mind working, weighing the flesh our bodies can provide over the amount we could pay. A calculation I ran only seconds prior. Lips purse into a wrinkle, finding the terms unfavorable.


    My arm launchers are loaded with high explosives, and I tap through menus to set them for airbursts above the iguana trenches. If this goes sideways, we¡¯ll have at least one surprise for them.


    ¡°You offer me a terrible deal!¡± Snaps General Splendeur, planting his hands over his haunches, where two plasma pistols sit in holsters.

 Chapter 34 As if you have a Choice Bitch

    ¡°Take the bunker and it¡¯ll be a sweeter deal.¡± I say meaningfully.


    Splendeur blinks those grapefruit eyes, detecting my implication. If we take casualties during the assault, our food will stretch that much further.


    "Mon Dieu!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in mock disbelief. "A deal? Zis? Non, madame, zis is not a deal¡ªit is an insult dressed as an offer!" Splendeur snaps, his gargle of tongues making seemingly human words.


    ¡°Ahem, what I mean is that we can expand the farm with the bunker¡¯s space.¡± I kneel, lowering the volume on my external speakers. ¡°General listen. I can hear chatter from the Singularity¡¯s advance. They¡¯re chowdering those sculptures with multiple damn bioweapons. They are pushing too hard, think! How long before another faction decides to unleash their own bioweapons? Or maybe have a few ¡®accidental¡¯ reactor breaches? We¡¯ve only seen Azhurai scouts so far, how far can they be pushed back before they show off tanks? What reinforcements will be dropped from orbit now that the Singularity¡¯s unleashed hell?! If other factions decide they¡¯d rather team up and crush the singularity then we¡¯d all be crushed between them. Yes, my squad too!¡± I stare into Splendeur¡¯s eyes, noticing they are slitted vertically, purely crocodillian, though in the nightly dark I failed to notice til now.


    ¡°Work with me here! We aren¡¯t fully aligned with the Singularity, we need to get into a position of strength and negotiate with them just as badly as you do.¡± I say, pausing to hear the general¡¯s response.


    General Splendeur¡¯s eyes narrow, turning glassy instead of sharpening. As if the half-frog half-iguana half-crocodile is meditating. Lips and tongues work silently, so similar to mouthing words yet completely alien. He steps back, shaking his head.


    This isn¡¯t the sort of screaming iguana behavior I''ve come to expect from the Tulverians. Despite his horrible accent this particular example possesses a social cunning we could use-


    -Spiderman¡¯s com channel snaps to life interrupting my thoughts.


    ¡°Boss, we got Collective spinolings headed our way.¡±


    ¡°How many?¡± I ask, voice broadcast on my external speakers for all to hear.


    ¡°About fifty are coming up behind the Tulverians. I got a clear shot if General Mcfoodie ducks.¡± Says Spiderman.


    My armored hand raises, pointing in the direction of the spinoling mob.


    ¡°Time is up, you have hostiles climbing up your rear.¡±


    Iguanas follow the angle of my finger, tracing it back into their own lines to the newest enemy.


    At least a score of armored lizards shift medium machine guns into the trench -single person rotary cannons so similar to Tychus¡¯ Sweet Talker- turning the midnight chasm into a river of flowing plasma. They won¡¯t get tunnelers, but it will dampen the vanguard. Time to force Splendeur¡¯s hand.


    I extend my open palm, thrusting it into the general¡¯s personal space.


    ¡°General, I¡¯m just a culled soldier who wants to go home, and you are defeated, without a base, fortifications, or extraction. In six months I¡¯ll have a ship and the crew to fly it. So what¡¯ll it be? Will you and I defeat the Novans or will you eat tails praying for another miracle to drop into your claws.¡±


    A hissing squawk escapes the general¡¯s lips, deflating the throat bulge. It inflates, then deflates with a whoosh of air.


    ¡°Do not underestimate us.¡± Splendeur hisses, as he accepts my hand.


    Shaking once before pulling me tightly into himself. Or rather, cuddling closer to my battlesuit.


    ¡°Take me back to sweet Tulveria, where ze rivers sing and ze roosting mothers whisper sweet lullabies! Zere, I shall bask once more in ze embrace of my homeland, ze cradle of my magnificent shelf!¡±


    ¡°You have a deal! Now let¡¯s get going!¡± I shout, retargeting my airbursts.


    Red circles appear across the HUD, indicating ideal detonation points for maximum spinoling casualties. Both arms come up, punching airbursting frags over my newest ally.


    Whomp whomp


    Both arms thud as four grenades arc through the sky, detonating to catastrophic effect amidst the enemy. Limbs explode, richochetting off trench walls and flying tnto the darkness above.


    Four red lines arc into the sky passing over my head before popping into phosphorus flares. Turning night into day. With a quartette of suns above us. Now I can see the enemy¡¯s full extent. Over a thousand bioforms stumble, blinking rapidly to clear their eyes. Then they charge.


    ¡°Ohh baby. That¡¯s too many.¡±


    Over tightbeam I call for Kerrigan, knowing she can manipulate these bioforms easily enough. A signal passes over the iguanas, some message I''m not privy to, they jerk, roll, and even climb out of the trench to aim at the collective monsters. I send two airburst grenades down the trench, each shot blasting a squad of lings into kindling. Instant respect is hard to communicate across racial divides, but the way the iguanas glance back at me speaks words they will never know.


    Purple light fills the night, a force that slaps me upside the head, carrying onward like tidal waves. Lings stumble as they encounter a psion. Stumbling blindly into our plasma fire. Grenades thunk into my hands, ready for explosions.


    Just as the lings turn towards Kerrigan, driven by some psionic mind greater than hers.


    They charge.


    All bioforms leap forward. Sprinting towards MY Kerrigan.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let them near her!¡± I order.


    ¡°Yessir!¡± Echoes in my ears.


    Carried upon the backs of grenades. Successive explosions tear through the lings, clearing the frontline for barker and a dozen Tulverians to reposition. His solarium axe finds a worthy home alongside their energy dirks, a punch dagger style of double edged swords that compliment jagged scales. Hacking and slashing, parrying claws with talons and teeth. The frontline devolves into a melee too tight for Tulverian aim.


    We fan out, targeting computers allowing me and the power armored soldiers to lay down accurate and mobile firepower between our melee combatants, working in tandem with their thrusts and parries. Claws rend flesh, only to be sundered by Barker''s armblades. The mut-arine faster than any mortal I''ve ever seen. He alone holds the line.


    While the Tulverians demonstrate exactly why these hundred survived. Splendeur draws both pistols, bulbous eyes aiming in separate directions and laying down firepower so accurately I begin to wonder if he isn¡¯t a cyborg! None of his underlings need guidance, half have gone prone so others can bring withering firepower to bear against the onslaught.


    Which only strips away the illusion of victory. From within the spinoling horde new creatures emerge, larger armored creatures, made before Hygieia colluded with Zazathur.


    ¡°Picking up seismic disturbances boss.¡± Wormface coms, rolling a frag grenade twenty feet ahead of himself.


    Is he insane? We¡¯ve split the distance to iguana lines, a grenade that close is almost guaranteed to hit someone friendly-


    -The explosion blinds me for a half second, the suit polarizing to shield my eyes. But in that blazing glory of a frag grenade¡¯s luminous spark I saw red. A tunneler. Larger than the lings.


    Their ambush revealed the Collective attacks en masse.


    Dark shapes rising from the earth by the score. We¡¯re surrounded. Dirt cracks beneath my feet, splitting as a goddamn roach emerges. Two spine blades swinging for my crotch.


    Good thing my armor isn¡¯t a marauder, but power armor meant to carry multiple tons of steel indefinitely. One kick splits this roach in half, gore splattering across Splendeur¡¯s shield.


    More roaches rise from the dirt, catching powered fists, feet, grenades, airburst grenades set to ¡®h shit¡¯ range, and even Barker¡¯s axe claims two roaches, splitting them from stem to stern like minced garlic. Yet still they swarm us. All charging at Kerrigan, making only half hearted nips in our direction.


    We fight. We kill. Until the job is done.


    I grasp a roach corpse, swinging it like a battering ram and smash two lings, bones break, limb pop, and still they charge. One airburst splatters them all.


    Tail stingers clatter off my armor, unable to pierce the multilayered monstrosity. I twist, sending an armor piercing grenade straight down a roach gullet.


    ¡°Swish.¡± I mutter, smiling darkly as roach guts splatter.


    I dodge sideways, hopping twenty feet upward while my armor reloads.


    Silence.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    I glance at Kerrigan, thermal scanners finding her atop a pile of thirty lings. Tail stinger slashing through the warmest corpse. She¡¯s holding a shortened version of Barker¡¯s axe, gore sizzling against the energy blade. Her other hand scans the battlefield with a pulser, seeking targets that do not appear.


    As abruptly as it began, the last bioform dies.


    Our tremorsense susses out any wounded survivors for us to execute, while the Tulverians regroup. Almost two dozen of them are wounded, but not a single one fell. Many are missing tails or arms, limbs that will undoubtably return with time. A phenomenal exemplar of drilled coordination. Throughout everything I hadn¡¯t heard a single order issued, yet each warrior knew exactly when to retreat and when to step forward and fight hand to hand. Sacrificing limb to save another''s life.


    ¡°Anyone wounded?¡± I tight beam.


    ¡°Some dents, but they couldn¡¯t draw blood.¡± Barker responds, with similar answers from the others.


    Kerrigan only gives a thumbs up, shooting Helen a dirty glare.


    At first I don¡¯t understand why, then I notice our battlesuits are linked, all sensors and data working together to provide the most complete picture possible. Including how many kills each of us achieved. I¡¯m sitting on the high end with an even one hundred and twenty eight, coincidentally half the max value you could hit in Starcraft Brood War. Damn, airburst grenades kick ass against the right target.


    Whereas Helen¡¯s count is a measly five. I¡¯d expect her to kill more than that with a single magazine. Not much I can do about her right now. Even five dead is better than zero, and I have no one who can backfill her armor, soon as Hygieia can, we¡¯ll grow a replacement for her. Bringing my attention to the immediate mountain of biomass around us.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, I remembered to mine more minerals.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: smortass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I warped two roaches to you, they burrowed and will warp out all that juicy biomass once you leave


    I steeple my fingers, tapping the armored digits together in my best supervillian impersonation and send a picture to Hygieia with Wormface¡¯s eyes.


    >Terran Thena: excellent.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: lol


    Within ten minutes I¡¯ve added thirty biomass to Hygieia¡¯s supply bunker. Enough resources to finish sliming the pots and begin a second farm there. Until moments ago, I hadn¡¯t thought about food for the journey home, as if we could survive off rations and trench rats alone.


    Having the time to worry about food is, in the most extraordinary way, a relief.


    For it convinces me that tomorrow will come.


    ¡°Wormface, pick two marines with tremorsense and get them up front. Let¡¯s keep the lizards alive long enough to take the bunker. I want Barker near Kerrigan in case there are any burrowed surprises out there. Keep her safe boys.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir.¡±


    Helen, Spiderman, and Wormface all head to the front, leading the way. Past wreckage of destroyed Juggernauts, rusted over centuries of acid rain and chemical warfare.


    We approach the final bunker, tremorsense detecting nothing, nor do our technician armors pick up any signals. Whatever defenses once remained in the Novan trenches are still fried. Strange. Especially considering those two Juggernauts we killed only a few moments ago. They were armed with top of the line Novan shielding and plasma cannons.


    >Terran Thena: Oh hey! Don¡¯t forget to rip the shield generators and plasma cannons off those Juggernauts.


    >Executrix Alaea: Yep, already scavenged them, but I need a foundry to really get value out of these. Cap the bunker, and do not get shot Athena!


    I send her a kiss emoji, my kindest way to say ¡®pound sand¡­ Into diamonds¡¯. Alaea gets the message and let¡¯s me focus on fighting the battle she wished to be a part of.


    At any other time in Syrak¡¯s history we¡¯d die terrible deaths to buried traps, single use laser emitters that fire a flat beam through a hundred yards of trench, strong enough to cut infantry in half, but the EMP has disabled everything. I¡¯m sure we bypass a thousand booby traps and security measures on accident. Tremorsense warns us of covered pitfallsA truth that becomes evident when we start finding Novan technicians locked in their suits, hands seized around emplaced autocannons. Some of the text appears written in Cyrillic, Russian or Ukrainian in origin, yet illegible otherwise. Barker picks up one of the cyborgs, ready to punch his faceplate in when Wormy catches his arm.


    Suit tentacles extend and plug into a concealed port on the tech¡¯s armor, ordering his faceplate open with engineer overrides. Inside is a bald man, eyebrow stubs regrowing after the cryogel stole them. Mouth open with a drop of drool leaking down the corner.


    ¡°What¡¯s the call boss? We still have symbiotes.¡± Asks Wormy.


    ¡°Sergeant, it''s been days since the EMP! Why are these soldiers not reactivated?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Takes time to rebuild electronics. Especially if everything is fried. You¡¯d have to rebuild the tools to build the replacements. Damn. Sir this is a real shitshow. Those two Juggernauts probably survived because of their shielding or were parked deep enough in a bunker. We¡¯ll only know after getting inside and cracking the computer that records Novan deployments.¡±


    My nostrils flare, inhaling deeply before I give the order.


    ¡°Infest them. Keep it quiet. Get them out of sight then warp them back for Hygieia to infest and Alaea to reactivate their suits. Don¡¯t let the Tulverians see our warp tech.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡±


    [+2 occupied power suits]


    We proceed more carefully then, Helen makes full use of her liaison status, often sending three Tulverians ahead. Claws scraping against compacted dirt, scritch scratching echoes through the cavernous trenches. I expect ambushes, yet no resistance appears. Not even when we reach the main bunker and find three layers of blast shielding melted open do we find hide or hare of a functioning tech. I have Wormy send me a mental picture of each face, recognizing a few from school. Not personal friends, but people I noticed in passing. Only one stands out, a homeless man so tanned he was living leather, an unforgettably unpleasant face. The very image of a mental health crisis, who once accosted me near the college locker rooms, screaming about body snatching aliens who were coming to castrate him unless he could hide his balls inside me.


    I may be a virgin, but even I know the balls don¡¯t go inside your partner! Maybe college security found out what he meant, but I have no love of the man. This is one human whom will be better off with a symbiote to regulate his impulses. Ironically making all his fears come true. Well, not the castration part. I''m not an asshole.


    Which is when I realize, none of the techs spoke. They¡¯re people, not hardware.


    I poke his cheek, trying to get a response.


    ¡°Why do they all seem braindead? An EMP shouldn¡¯t affect humans.¡± I foolishly ask.


    Had I suspected the answer, that particular question would never have left my lips. But it did. So Wormy pulls the hobo halfway out of his suit, disassembling it more than moving the man. Wires and tubes enter the Earthling¡¯s body at various points, organs replaced by hardware. Like the top of his skull.


    ¡°Technomancers remove the top third of the skull, so they can physically decorticate human frontal lobes. Reducing metabolic needs and increasing compliance.¡± Wormy says, suit tentacles repeating the procedure and cutting through recent stitches.


    Skin peels back to reveal a shining plate which Wormy unscrews and pulls directly upwards. I hyperfocus on the screws, seeing they added a bracket within this man¡¯s brain cavity. A place for them to anchor both the skull covering cap and the fist sized orbs near the front. Twin black spheres with wires and visible circuitry, all lights flashing in an asynchronous error code. These are computers that regulate all Technocracy rules and laws, enforcing them with 100% compliance.


    ¡°Can¡¯t remember freedom or your home if they excise the brain. Sloppy though, these really should be hardened electronics. Such a waste of biomass.¡± Mutters Wormy, shaking his head.


    ¡°Techomancers probably ran numbers and decided it wasn¡¯t worth the expense. Like a damn insurance adjuster.¡± Helen answers.


    This is the fate Jim and the Singularity supposedly saved us from, and for the first time I believe they had good intentions. I¡¯m not looking at a person, but a fleshbag who had all personality physically carved out of his skull. No amount of surgery or healing could restore what this person was.


    ¡°This will happen to everyone if we lose.¡± I say, taking a mental picture and sending it to Alaea and Hygieia.


    Neither reply, but I know they¡¯ve seen it. There¡¯s just nothing to say. Nor is there enough human left to infest. No personality to assume, as it is entirely vivisectioned. Hygieia would most likely break this human down into components rather than toss enough symbiotes at him to function.


    ¡°Thank you sergeant.¡± I say, moving forward into the network of criss crossed trenches.


    Small pillboxes seem to appear at the end of each trench, always occupied by braindead soldiers. The Tulverians blast a few before Helen, now acting as our Liaison-de-saurian reigns them in. We fan out in squads of two, my soldiers retrieving more biomass and suits than I can count, filling the supply bunker, Alaea¡¯s closet and all of Hygieia¡¯s fledgling pools.


    [+38 occupied tech suits]


    It takes us six hours to clear the nearby trenches, removing braindead techs and the occasional combat armor, heavier gear armed with railguns and grenade launchers, but no functional shields. Besides, it will all have to be rebuilt, tying up our nanofactories for several days.


    Finally I stand in front of my most sincere enemy. The ones who have tried a dozen times to kill me. Bunker 0001, headquarters of the Novan Technomancy of Steel¡¯s military operations on Syrak. Three blast doors stand wedged open, four plasma Juggernauts laying in pieces around the entrance, one entirely torn apart as if by a hundred lions, and another cored with a gaping hole one meter in diameter that pierces both Juggernaut and blast door behind. I flick the edge, breaking off a piece of slagged steel. An incredible amount of energy or heat burned through this particular tank and I doubt it would have stood still, treads are still intact so it appears capable of movement, meaning this one meter wide beam occurred faster than it could react. Like a Death Star¡¯s beam.


    ¡°Boss, looks like an orbital bombardment. This much energy wasn''t a Juggernaut, or an Azhurai scout. Maybe we just found what their tanks can do.¡± Corporal tight beams.


    ¡°Sure, but look at the angle, something was in this trench, on level footing, firing parallel to the ground. See how the beam cut straight through the front and back without any tilt? No dropship did that.¡± I say, peering through the tank hole into the bunker¡¯s depths. Low intensity lasers scan the interior, finding only a dirt atrium descending at a steady angle. If something shot from inside, it''s gone now.


    There is a second possibility, and it lays within the bunker. A new form of tank that triggered on an ally. My heart pounds against my ribs. Warning of danger. What would make an AI sacrifice one tank to kill? Bioweapons. I sidestep the bunker, keeping clear of the maw. Kerrigan lines up behind me, never straying too far. We wait for the other squads to finish searching the trenches before stacking up. Helen waves four Tulverians in, two with blades, two with shortened versions of pulse rifles, stubby weapons meant to swing better in close quarters.


    ¡°Helen, you¡¯ve got our only cloaking module. Lead the way.¡± I order.


    She clicks the com link and vanishes from sight, deactivating active sensors from laser rangefinders to radar to a few systems I can¡¯t begin to conceive, all goes dark.


    A minute passes.


    Then another.


    A whisper comes through the hive mind.


    All clear.


    But you¡¯d better come take a look.


    Barker and a trooper take off through the bunker, bouncing off the blast doors as they try to push past a Tulverian, finally settling the matter by scooping him into Barker¡¯s arms and carrying the squawker across the threshold like a protesting bride. I step behind a blast door, clearing the avenue inside for others to pass. Power armor doesn¡¯t leave so much as a dent in the foot thick doors, which is when I see each layer was peeled back by something different. Outer layer is covered in claw marks, the spinolings or maybe Azhurai scouts, while the central door has clean slices through it, as if fruit ninja tested lightsabers against it, and the final door chills my blood. Human sized handprints remain plastered in steel. I grasp the very same door and leverage my suit¡¯s considerable power to attempt similar impressions.


    I push harder, trying to squish my hand into the steel like a child might mark wet concrete. The steel holds strong. Which means it can¡¯t be steel, this power armor should be able to sheer foot thick steel with the amount of effort I¡¯ve applied. A moment later I abandon the exercise and open my com.


    ¡°Careful, something stronger than me breached these doors-¡±


    -I freeze. Eyes focusing on the Singularity tunneling tank not ten meters inside the bunker. It¡¯s sitting idle, engine cold, with the driver¡¯s compartment sharing the same circle of incineration as the Juggernaut outside.


    ¡°The Singularity beat us here.¡± I whisper.


    Tremorsense wiggles, noting the disappearance of two Tulverian soldiers.

 Chapter 35 Trinity or Kerrigan

    I moved without thinking.


    ¡°Helen! Get the lizards out of there!¡±


    They may be fairweather fellows but I¡¯m not so hungry for biomass as to waste their lives frivolously. Or maybe, deep down, I¡¯m hoping one of the iguanas eats spiders. Especially pinky fuzzy tarantulas.


    My suit squeezes through the entrance, ducking sideways and activating every flashlight I have, including the emergency parking reds before opening external speakers; as if I¡¯m fighting shadows and not an ally. Iguanas skitter between blast doors, clearing the tunnel except for one who remains motionless.


    ¡°Hey, clear out-¡± I begin, grasping his shoulder.


    I¡¯m only half looking at him, busy looking around the bunker, scanning for the death I know is here. My small gesture sends his head rolling, cut so cleanly the two pieces stuck together until my dumbass disturbed him.


    ¡°Trinity, we are not here to fight you. My name is Private Sable Yurten, my last orders were to obtain weaponry and join the battle, I¡¯ve done that. The Juggernaut you ordered me to kill was destroyed, I sabotaged it and used it as a decoy to destroy two others. If you need assistance, we can- uhm- Join you.¡± I say, horrified as my mouth speaks words it ought not.


    The hell am I thinking? Fight alongside a bioweapon? One accident and my head would roll! Although, she would be the only target on this planet people would shoot at before my oversized marauder.


    Light sparkles against the ceiling, three drops of blood falling from a monomolecular blade¡¯s edge. Unable to preserve the surface tension required to stick. My lights aim up, searching the ceiling for the tech demon.


    She is there. Legs split one hundred and eighty degrees apart to wedge herself between rafters. One arm is missing, along with the right side of her head.


    I can see the sparkles more clearly now, some kind of nanites working to repair what should be fatal damage. Half a skull missing, and part of her face and torso, as if she was caught in that death star beam that destroyed the front doors, tunneling tank, and Juggernaut. At this point I can only picture a Drakken laser drill.


    ¡°Hey, you look damaged, can I uhm, get you anything? We can push deeper into the bunker if you need a few moments. Do you- are there any Technocracy enemies left within the bunker?¡± I call, struggling to keep my tone even.


    I¡¯ve barely finished talking when a voice speaks from her outline.


    ¡°Sable Yurten¡­ That voice¡­¡±


    Speech lists and tilts, coming in odd bursts. Not too surprising given her skull is regrowing. Literally adding an appreciable amount of mass to her wounds. How little did she regenerate from? Can she come back from total destruction?


    ¡°The only enemy left, is Athena Finley.¡± She whispers, using the name none should know.


    ¡°How-¡±


    -Her figure vanishes. Completely invisible. I go active on sensors, lighting up the world like a dozen comsats trying to give burrowed banelings the gift of cancer. The already small thermal signature goes with her body. A true cloak. I leap sideways, angling for Trinity¡¯s severed arm as the blade finds my neck, passing through the foot and a half of armor to sever -decapitate- my suit.


    I backpedal furiously, trying to distance myself from the insane bioweapon. Arms come up, target locks engage. There is no more hesitation in my actions, running scared is for those without the will to live. Not me.


    Both triggers depress sending four grenades on a collision course with Trinity. Blade flicks, outright cutting a bomb in half.


    My Jaw drops, barely processing that she moved faster than the speed of sound. Her weight shifts as if she were to reach out and catch the second grenade with her missing arm. It sails past her, traversing space that should have been filled with her shoulder.


    Fire backlights the demon. Blue shielding flickers on, protecting her from the molten shrapnel behind. Shields, she still has personal shielding despite missing a third of her body.


    ¡°FUCK!¡±


    The odds are against me, no, she has me beat in every way.


    Her steps come quickly. Faster than time itself, spinning to slap aside my remaining -airborne- grenades. I¡¯m still mid stride fingers pinning triggers.


    One grenade is slapped aside while the second impacts her backside. Time unfreezes. Kerrigan and Barker chase the launched form of a woman with pulser fire landing a dozen successive hits as only expert shots can. Helen cracks off six shots herself, four miss. Symbiote enhancement isn''t nearly enough to keep up with purposefully engineered soldiers.


    Then the universe seems to play a cosmic joke on Trinity. Shields fade and collapse. Broken under the failed parry of my grenades and multiple plasma rounds.


    A split second later my launchers reload and send four high explosive grenades into her chest. Explosions hurl her against the wall, pounding her with sequential blasts until we run dry on ammo.


    I¡¯m about to ask for casualties when the sensors flash. She isn¡¯t dead. We hit her with more firepower than the Juggernaut and she is still alive. One leg is missing and her blade is nowhere to be seen, but she¡¯s clawing her way across the ground like some reanimated corpse. Dirt furrows under her strength, like an extraordinarily heavy tank is trying to cross a condemned bridge.


    Barker howls like a damn werewolf and sprints forward, unsheathing his light ax. I pop my armor, drawing the oversized plasma pistol and putting a single shot into Trinity¡¯s outstretched palm. Shields flicker again, somehow already recharged.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be shitting me!¡± I scream.


    But Barker¡¯s axe don¡¯t care. One strike becomes ten as the dogman swings, stabs, slices, and howls. Shields break under the barrage. Hands come off first, then arm and legs. Limbs first because despite the damage, she is still fighting, parrying each blow with an elbow or knee, as if deep down she knows all is repairable.


    So long as she survives.


    Her last limb falls away, and Barker steps back a pace, readying his ax when Trinity arches her back and mirrors his howl. I¡¯ve heard this sound once before and not with my ears. This noise is what Kerrigan made to repulse the spinolings.


    Unlike then, Trinity is not our friend, nor are we immune. Barker freezes, Helen turns and runs, cowering behind the nearest cover, outside I can sense the Tulverians scatter. Spiderman leaps ahead of them -power armor turning him into a jumping spider-, my other troopers flee. Only Wormface remains where he is, the collective will of his thousand worms too great to fear, or maybe too decentralized to understand.


    I want to vomit. Two red hot pokers bounce around my eyeballs for every second I look at this dying bioweapon. Every atom of my being knows this is not a sight one should ever behold. Hairs stand on end, as if gathering electricity or power to-


    -She healed me with power, why hasn¡¯t she self repaired the same way? Half a brain or not, that answer will soon reach her. We must kill her now before she can finish this spell or curse. But my armor seems locked, automatic reloads do not function, my servos don¡¯t whine.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    I can¡¯t aim the plasma pistol.


    Kerrigan appears next to the shrieking banshee, out of her armor. Purple afterimages bounding along behind her, so similar to Tassadar¡¯s High Templar model in Starcraft 1. Eyes blazing like purple supernovas. Her tail flicks once, hovering over the blank face before thrusting into her neck. With three quarters of the bioweapon¡¯s head gone it''s an awkward yet easy jab that halts the scream. Limbs unfreeze, autoloaders resumed function, and I dropped the pistol. Hands shaking.


    No, not just hands, my whole body was practically seizing.


    >Executrix Alaea: Psychic feedback? What is going on?!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Athena! GET OUT OF THERE!


    I see the words but can¡¯t respond. Didn¡¯t High Templars explode on death? Teeth chatter, mulching my tongue. Warm iron fills my mouth, blood or the muzzle of a pistol. Either way I lack the ability to fend it off. Something lands on my chest, knocking the wind out of my lungs so violently my gas mask flies off. Strong limbs pin my seizure, weathering the storm. Vision is the first sense to return.


    No idea when I lost sight, but it¡¯s back now.


    Kerrigan¡¯s stinger leaves my mouth, coated in bloody saliva. She¡¯s fully inside my suit, curled up around my half exposed figure in no uncertain terms.


    ¡°Ah, thank you Kerrigan, help- augh-¡± I retch thick phlegm from my lungs, as if ten years of hay fever leaves my sinuses at once.


    ¡°Oh god- help- the others!¡± I gasp between retching.


    Kerrigan is already beside Barker, calming his own seizures. She moves through our band like an angel of healing, soothing the psychic tumults we cannot conceive let alone combat. Whatever ability she has calms our shuddering nervous systems, steadying limbs and un-knocking knees. My body shudders with pins and needles, as if every bone in my body is funny and I flicked them all.


    A long half hour of recovery ensues. Eventually we recover and regroup, taking a few moments to melt any traces of the psychic demon once known as Trinity.


    ¡°Think the other bioweapons heard that?¡± I ask, grasping at hope.


    ¡°I bet the entire planet heard that boss.¡± Wormface answers, moving awkwardly, ¡°Our hive mind is disrupted again, we¡¯ll recover but-¡±


    ¡°Everything hurts like the dickens!¡± Grumbles Barker, holding his forehead.


    Our seizures lasted for several minutes, enough time for those outside to regroup and return. Once scattered Tulverians leer into the bunker, thermal optics locked on us. Regrouping on the periphery of my tremorsense, plenty of distance and time to warp in engineer¡¯s armor, with all the collected overrides we¡¯ve pilfered. I¡¯d love to stay in the marauder, but no head means too many sensors are gone.


    We fan out slowly, filling the atrium, none of us willing to press the attack with migraines. So we spend another thirty minutes in silence, gathering our wits. Piling them into a feeble lump of courage. Kerrigan finds her way back into armor, a small nicety I¡¯m deeply grateful for.


    >Terran Thena: I feel like that bitch steamrollered my brain then punched both ovaries. But I¡¯m fine. Trin is dead.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: good


    >Matriarch Hygieia: glad your safe


    >Matriarch Hygieia: my LZ is clear for now


    >Matriarch Hygieia: need some lings?


    I glanced around at the squad, Barker -for the first time in his life- is silent, Wormy is shambling around like a zombie and the Troopers are all huddled together holding their heads like they might roll away.


    >Terran Thena: Yes please. We got shaken up pretty hard. I¡¯d ask for roaches but if they die like those other ones I don¡¯t want em at all.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: died like the other ones?


    >Terran Thena: Yeah, back near the Tulverian ambush we got hit by roaches.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: ooohhh


    >Matriarch Hygieia: those were not my roaches


    >Matriarch Hygieia: they were Zazathur¡¯s test product, the one he gave to Ardain


    >Matriarch Hygieia: they cost less biomass but are weak lil pussies


    >Terran Thena: Oh¡­ Okay. uhm¡­


    My thoughts trail off, too focused on my shuddering hand. I feel like an invalid, incapable of autonomy.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: sending four lings to you and one of my special projects


    >Matriarch Hygieia: roaches are busy scavenging


    >Matriarch Hygieia: got a dozen lings if you are desperate but they are my only defenders


    >Matriarch Hygieia: spending every gram of biomass on building the ship


    >Terran Thena: That should be enough. Thank you Hygieia.


    Ling1 and Lingling2 appear, receiving headpats like the goodboys they are. The other two spinolings slink to the rear, unfamiliar with affection or life itself. Smaller than Ling1 and Lingling2 with double the spines yet half as tall. They must be juveniles, freshly born and lacking experience. Although, the Collective¡¯s hive mind ought to have provided all the necessary knowledge, just as flash training brought Earthlings into the galactic war.


    ¡°Alright, spread out, if you find any humans I want to know about them. Defend yourselves as necessary but the mission is to capture this base intact with all the knowledge we can. Including any personnel.¡± I order.


    Lingling2 rolls his eyes, then trots off into the dark pausing a moment to ruff at the younger lings. Ling 1 takes up the rear, headbutting buttholes until the younger lings chase after Lingling2. They sweep the room, a shadow floating behind them.


    It enters our collective conscious before our vision. Unthreatening to us, lethal to all others. Large, like a horse yet longer and lower. Silent claws leave indentations on the reinforced floor, claws so sharp they tear into Technocracy building materials, a sort of diamond impregnated epoxy meant to seal the floor and ceiling while also acting as structural support. Something not even a Juggernaut¡¯s treads could do.


    >Terran Thena: What did you send? Why is it hard to see?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hehehe


    >Matriarch Hygieia: tell it to bite something and find out


    I shrug, trusting myself in another body.


    ¡°Alright sneaky. Go help the lings.¡±


    It growls. A throaty shudder that makes my ears pop and teeth chatter, Wormface falls on his ass -we¡¯re all fragile after Trinity¡¯s final curse- then the shadow bounds after the lings, making less noise than far smaller creatures. So its stealthy and slow, odd evolution choice, but if Hygieia said to bite something, this ought to be interesting.


    >Terran Thena: Not picking up anything on Tremorsense, how is that ship coming?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: this isnt sc2


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cant just poof a battlecruiser out every 64 seconds


    >Matriarch Hygieia: takes time


    >Matriarch Hygieia: gotta make the fungus to grow the superstructure


    >Matriarch Hygieia: but before that you have to dig a hole big enough to fit in and protect it


    >Matriarch Hygieia: then grow the other sixty nine fungi that will create the individual systems


    >Matriarch Hygieia: after that I have to feed them


    >Matriarch Hygieia: but youre sending all the biomass to dead men


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you are falling short Thena


    >Terran Thena: How short?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: 1500


    >Matriarch Hygieia: at this rate four months to build


    >Terran Thena: FOUR MONTHS?!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: radiation is worse than expected


    >Matriarch Hygieia: lots of deleterious mutations


    >Matriarch Hygieia: we need a constant influx of biomass not promises to feed iguanas!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: manage your resources Athena.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: NOT ENOUGH MINERALS MINE MORE MINERALS


    >Terran Thena: Yeah, sure, I''ll just call down the mules I don¡¯t have to harvest mineral patches that don¡¯t exist!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: could really use a hundred odd iguana bodies¡­


    >Terran Thena: No. I¡¯m not fragging my only allies!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: what if they turn on you first?


    I end the chat. Lifting my mask to spit blood onto the floor. Feels like I bit my tongue fifty times, with rifts and valleys criss crossing it. Worse, I can feel nanites stitching it together, slowly tying cells to each other as the cells regenerate of their own accord.


    Okay okay, it¡¯s super cool. Painful and weird as hell. But cool enough I try and focus on the sensation to avoid thoughts of magic space demons.


    And equally disgusting.


    Almost as distasteful as talk of stabbing the iguanas up their tails. Hygieia¡¯s devoted to the collection of biomass, a goal we share¡­ Except¡­ Do we? Was I always so focused, so stubborn as Hygieia is now? I spit more bloody phlegm, clearing my mouth before sealing my mask and power armor.


    We haven¡¯t cleared the bunker yet. That comes before bickering ninnies. A cursory examination of the atrium shows this was only a sort of quadruple airlock with guard posts and overlapping lanes of fire every ten feet. More braindead cyborgs remain at their posts bearing the marks of Trinity. I¡¯d love to find that pirate looking gun of hers, the one that fired three shots at a time instead of one, but no luck. Nor are there any heads to salvage as she blew apart each skull with unerring savagery.


    But these Earthlings were already dead, their bodies functioned without their brains, a terrible fate. Better to render them into biomass for the ship, and protect Earth¡¯s heirs with their armor.


    [+22 technician power armors]


    [+20 biomass] [half sent to ship]


    I mentally request an update to the total counts, frowning at how much it reduced my biomass income cause the heads were gone. Guess brains are complicated to grow.


    16 / 24 Biomass (Hygieia¡¯s pool of available biomass)


    334 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress


    10 / 62 Mechanized (lots of lobotomized soldiers)


    1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts


    2 Nanofactories


    (about 400 biomass in the open field near the 2 destroyed plasma-juggernauts)


    The number kicks me in the lungs. Sixty two power armors. I knew we were raking them in with the captured technicians but hadn¡¯t realized we¡¯d gathered more than twenty out there.


    I¡¯m not alone anymore.


    My squad can no longer be designated as a squad, nor a platoon. We are finally an army. And I¡¯m about to capture the factory.


    ¡°Feels amazing when a plan starts to come together.¡± I say, marching deeper into the Bunker¡¯s confines.


    Completely forgetting that Trinity called me by my real name. Even if I had remembered, I would not have cared, it¡¯s not like the bioweapons are piloted remotely, there is no way for Trinity to have passed information onto any others.