《Trithenar Innovation -Outdated-》


 Chapter 4 You want me to Infiltrate Who? -this will be cut-

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


    Mom survived. She was safe¡­ With my little sibling. It would have been nice to be a big sister. Weird to be in college with a new sibling, but in a way that only made the bond more special.


    Thoughts of sex sent her into despair. Dad was a cheater. Not just any cheater, but a serial impregnator. Twelve step siblings? TWELVE? That was more seamen than you could stuff into an Ohio Class submarine! When did he even find the time? Dad was always so busy with work and church.


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


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


    I''ve probably met my step-siblings...


    Mother¡¯s inexplicable tears suddenly cleft my heart. Every night she knew where her husband was, with his very own version of Whorely. Crap taste in men might be genetic.


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


    Was I raised in a church? Or a cult?


    ¡°Listen here. Felicia can¡¯t hear us right now. Chimera¡¯s like you aint exactly legal to sell. What exactly Kaalra has planned for you is a mystery, but the amount he¡¯s paying means you¡¯re special. And I aint letting no one burn out your skull. So listen. I¡¯m gonna to split your mind three ways then entangle em all together. That ought to keep you running for the next few centuries. Maybe longer if you take advantage of the circumstances and roll with it.¡±


    I scowled at the man, mentally telling him to fellate an elephant and die. Too bad Felicia wasn¡¯t listening.


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


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


    Fear illuminates Jim¡¯s eyes, as if the very thought of this ¡®Kaalra¡¯ terrifies him. ¡°Athena, girl, I¡¯m begging you, don¡¯t fuck with the nameless caste. All that bullshit about becoming farmers and generals of the Singularity? Aint gonna happen. Except for a few dozen fringe cases like you.¡±


    -I take Syrak-9. We have five years to take the game world. Called game because the nameless caste demanded their vassal states send a legion to fight and die on it each year. Earth wasn¡¯t being drafted, they were being sacrificed in a meatgrinder so other planets did not have to sacrifice their sons and daughters.


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


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


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


    I weigh the odds quickly. Making the right decision on the drop of a dime is a skill of mine. Maybe I acquired it playing endless tournaments of 1v1 Starcraft. A talent that serves me well here. Jim has no incentive to help me, but there are no better alternatives. I lose nothing by agreeing today. If he does give mom a guardian AI, she¡¯ll eventually figure it out, and force it to find me, something I can facilitate by agreeing.


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


    "I¡¯m just doing my job. We never met, we never spoke, and your mom will be safe for the rest of her life. Which will be extended, I wasn¡¯t lying about the Singularity upgrading earth, we dropped off the gates. Entrepreneurs will probably dial Earth in a few months and start selling goodies at a hundred times the market value. But your mom will get the finest nanotech this side of the galactic nexus, once I get paid. Gotta keep my word. Nanites can clear out most diseases and ninety percent of aging related issues. Your mom will live a few centuries longer.¡±


    >Neural nodes networked.


    >Hive mind accepted.


    >Flashtraining commencing¡­

 Chapter 11 Juggernaut

    I wish I knew the bunker was wired with explosives, but sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Hopefully this will all work out in my favor¡­


    Two sayings 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 is breathing down our necks.


    One look at my internal sensors told me radiation inside the bunker was about 50 rem, light radiation poisoning after a minute of exposure. Death after twenty four hours. My helmet converted the alien unit automatically into values my tiny Earthling engineer brain could grasp or had any chance of being familiar with, one little perk of being brainwashed in a tube.


    Under pain of Radiation I need to get Kerrigan into radiation layers or she¡¯ll die after a few minutes in the trench. 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. 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 maybe 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 damage all armor and even good against enemy shielding. If we can get enough of them. 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. He is fifty feet into the walls, tunneling faster than I can walk. 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 now only a foot tall- 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. She stares at it for a second, sniffs it, frowns. Then cocks her head to the side.


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


    Meat¡­ She says 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.


    ¡°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, wiping her down.


    I know there isn¡¯t time. We need to stuff her into a suit and hide in the zergling tunnel. NOW!


    Ling1 understands my desire and pushes some empty crates infront of the tunnel entrance so we won¡¯t be discovered. Then starts digging as well. Flashing claws leave no space for me to dig, so I''m forced to be a clipboard nanny.


    After two lings pass through it''s still a tight fit for Kerrigan and nearly unpassable for myself, I¡¯ll have to ditch my chestplate. Dirt moves faster than any direwolf or dog could shift it. He¡¯s 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 text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    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 ought to be, 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 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 moving again, they¡¯ve finished the Tulverians. It¡¯s time to go. One hand grasps the first radiation layer 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¡­ I really hope she isn¡¯t the kind of bioweapon that explodes when you feed it 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 too much candy crush.


    ¡°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 while I dress you, 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 have I gotten her bloody legs into the rad layer does she spring out of it, claws tearing the fabric and darting through the bunker faster than a cloud, smiling broadly as she carries twenty pounds of rations in with her. Hopping into an empty 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.


    Three minutes until the Juggernaut reaches us. One until the technicians arrive. Despite that Kerrigan seems energized. Happy to be in a tunnel. But Ling1 found a weapon capable of destroying the Juggernaut.


    I don¡¯t exactly see through their eyes, yet Ling1 has sent me a picture. A sort of text message that automatically opens and begins playing a video within my mind¡¯s eye. The entire bunker is lined with explosives. All waiting for a signal to detonate. Bricks of a Technomancy C4 equivalent are wired together in a sort of dead man¡¯s firecracker. Defuse one and the others will pop. A chain reaction of explosions guaranteed to turn the Juggernaut missiles into secondary and tertiary detonations. Twenty thousand pounds of fiery death.


    Dozens of tripwires criss-cross the entrance and bunker. We should be dead.


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


    ¡°Otay Pfina.¡±


    Without a way for me to trigger the explosives remotely we will all die. Tunnels do not protect from concussive waves or pressurized air, in fact, that might channel the explosion towards us.


    ¡°We REALLY have to go!¡±


    I sweep her into my arms, barely managing to pick up the kid. Whatever lab cooked her up must have been on a heavy gravity world; 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. I doubt it¡¯s broken, but certainly sprained. We need transportation. If not for their spines I¡¯d have Kerrigan ride a zergling.


    ¡°Crap¡­¡± I mutter aloud, looking from the tunnel entrance to the bunker¡¯s mouth.


    Between us and the door is a crate mountain. 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 ballistic armor. Transportation packaging piled thirty feet high. Electrical panels appear on the front of each, marking them as 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 weapon is in there somewhere. 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: Yes. but no. If they find out I was involved, it¡¯ll be galactically bad news. And I need time. And we have to hope those systems aren¡¯t temporally locked to Syrak¡¯s surface.


    >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? News isn¡¯t worse than death.


    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. Whomever cleared out this bunker did it well enough. No guns or usable munitions remain, only explosives and Juggernaut specific ammo.


    >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 12 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.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    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 13 Trapped like a Rabbit in a Mouse Hole

    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 in my arms 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, Ling-ling2 breaks through his tunnel into the wider world. 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. Crystal claws can really move dirt.


    ¡°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, 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. We have two minutes so the Juggernaut is a mile away too far to shake-


    -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. 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. 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 in 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. Our number 1 highest priority capture target. A 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. Ping alarms erupt in my helmet. Something just scanned us.


    >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


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


    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 supports with brute force adhering him to 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. Dirt explodes beneath my chest launching me ten feet in a cartwheel that would put me in contention for the Paralympics. 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 gold 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 you are a target. But the third reason tightens my sphincter.


    If you¡¯re immortal.


    Most would achieve a simulacra of immortality with layers of shielding and armor, but this ¡®woman¡¯ seems to be human 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. 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 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. When the pulse hits, 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, to warp then spin through flesh after piercing armor.


    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 stopped, halted by something. Ling1 says the weapon threw two rocks at the Juggernaut, one is still spewing white smoke and the other seems to hit the Juggernaut and stopped it. 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: I¡¯m going to die, 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 14 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: I¡¯m in control, you have five minutes before that Juggernaut rolls over your skull.


    >Terran Thena: Your initials should be AS for AssHole. I have a needler and it¡¯s a gotdaamned TANK!


    I rip off my gasmask, coughing blood onto the floor. My hands strip my outer layers, they won¡¯t fit into the Tychus plan. Nanofactory screens illuminate then run through a thousand schematics in nanoseconds, all skimmed and beamed to Alaea.


    Alien is right. Advanced alien too! 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: Can¡¯t. They¡¯re wetware systems. Earthling core. Hope Whorely got turned into one of them. Then we can piledrive that whore 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. 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 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 engines restart with a deep rumbling that shakes my boots. Kerrigan appears at my side, tucking herself against my bad leg. I wince, prepared to fall over as my sprained ankle gives out, only to find the leg fully healed. That Singularity weapon did more than just cure my bullet wounds.


    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 correlary 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.


    A heads up display appears in my vision, with simple controls for teleportation. Anything I''m touching can be marked, more than that, anything within ten meters of myself or a creature in our hive mind can be marked, 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¨C


    ¨CBullets 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 to the Nanofactory¡¯s product port.


    Nanofactories were ubiquitous across Singularity and Technocracy armadas. A portable piece of 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 expand 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.


    ¡°Ith Pfina gonna weaff me behind?¡± Asks Kerrigan.


    ¡°No. I¡¯ll be right behind you. So do not stop running. Understand?¡±


    She nods, so trusting. I wonder if this is what the Singularity bioweapon once was, small, alone, naked, and totally exposed to violence before they had any concept of humanity. The nanofactory pauses, loading another crate of supplies. There is a moment of silence, then I hear distant rumbling. The deeply quiet booms of long range guns firing in unison. 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.


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


    >Terran Thena: THOR IS HERE! I¡¯M TRAPPED! HELP!


    >Executrix Alaea: Working on it. Hide!


    With the nanofactory between me and the Juggernaut I¡¯m well hidden, plus I can see it through ling1 who¡¯s gone to ground, hiding beneath crates. Perfectly still. The Juggernaut backs up, returning the way it came for some inexplicable reason. It jerks awkwardly. Starting then stopping three times. Did the pilot reboot incorrectly? 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. Ling1 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: I need two of those!


    >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 closet¡­ Under my bed. Also, no human life support. Maybe no oxygen. You¡¯d probably die. Sorry.


    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 by cosplaying as 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 is mobile and waddles behind the factory with me. We have no heavy guns, no capacity for killing tanks. Only zerglings. So I give the panic order that all zerglings receive when an overwhelming force is bearing down on them.


    Burrow.


    They obey, 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 trench and bunker, 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 my vulva with straight razors.


    A second suit appears in front of me, chest open. Inviting me into the warm bosom 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 must 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 15 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 a bit off.


    ¡°Hey, wait a second. Factory was already making suits, got a new one. You got lucky. 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 steel, 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 zergling, 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, the option to warp a Tulverian plasma rifle off planet to Alaea.


    Good boy! I think, activating the option. 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 engineers. Holographic instructions guide my hands 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 cannot.


    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.


    I¡¯m not surprised in the least. At this point, I¡¯m just waiting for another betrayal. Maybe I¡¯ll win ¡®Backstabbed Bingo¡¯.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    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. Ling1 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. My new name for the teleportation system. 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.


    ¡°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 trinity 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, Lingling2 is busy gathering Tulverian gear, including helmets and ammunition bandoliers. The warp HUD makes this possible. Still, it¡¯s like driving two cars at once. The throttle is linked to both 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 linked brick of C4 in the bunker. Ling1 drops a brick near my feet, looking up at me like a puppy who just delivered slippers. Okay, we might have 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. 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 16 Proxy Racks #1 is Secured

    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.


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    >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.


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    >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.


    The Juggernauts are coming.


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    ¡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.


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    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.


    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.


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    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.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    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.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    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.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


    ¡°Ah, yeah, shoulda guessed that¡¯s what she wants.¡± I laugh, searching the database for solarium based cloaking devices.


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    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

    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!


    >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.


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    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.


    ¡°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.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    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.¡±


    ¡°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.


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    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.


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    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 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.


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    ¡°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.


    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.


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


    ¡°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.


    [12/12 powered armors]


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    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.


    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.


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


    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.


    ¡°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.


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


    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.


    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.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    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.


    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?!


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    >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.

 Chapter 36 Endless Supplies for Factory Production

    We split the bunker in half, my forces clearing left, the Tulverians under General Splendeur clearing right since that side has three passageways. I want to object but one look at my supply counter ends all argument. Ten soldiers are all I currently have, plus a handful of lings, and a surprise.


    18 / 24 Biomass (Hygieia¡¯s pool of available biomass)


    334 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress


    10 / 62 Mechanized


    1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts


    2 Nanofactories


    400 biomass waiting to be collected


    ¡°Alright, have fun General. Kill the techs, but don¡¯t forget why we are here. Capture the base. Start at the main computer, then capture the factory without damaging it!¡± I call, jogging away to avoid Splendeur¡¯s longwinded reply.


    That man lives to talk, probably an ambassador who stuck his tongue in the wrong outlet and got sent to Syrak as penance. Sweet silence greets me, without any hint of a felonious accent.


    To add insult to injury, Alaea¡¯s managed to adjust our suits to good old American! Specifically a deep male voice with the barest hint of a southern drawl. So masculine I can picture his jawline, and hallucinate the scent of fresh walnuts and roses.


    I check my sensors, making sure someone didn¡¯t slip hallucinogens into my air supply. A few moments later the ¡®all clear¡¯ alert pops up, in that same masculine voice¡­


    ¡°Okay¡­ Look, it¡¯s better than the aussie. Just leave it alone for now.¡± I order myself, heading down the larger of two tunnels.


    Ling1 is already a mile ahead of me, mapping tunnels despite the pure darkness. A few emergency lights flicker hither and thither like dying fireflies bear testimony to the catastrophic EMP which fried almost every circuit including air recyclers and standard lighting. We have to spread out and trail something against the walls to find doors. Except for Kerrigan, the queen of using her hardware.


    She flips suit lights on, acting as a beacon for us all. Not the wisest move as it makes her a target, Barker looks back at me, then activates his own lights to provide a second target. He -unlike Kerrigan- can be reincarnated, and knows exactly how I treasure her.


    Thanks Barker, you¡¯re a better man than Hygieia meant you to be. I think, flicking on my own lights and spreading out to illuminate the tunnel fully. Like the trench outside this passageway is wide enough to fit an armed juggernaut, taller too, with a gradually descending incline, just steep enough for water to run downhill, with channels cut in the walls and ceiling to condense water. A low tech way of collecting necessary fluids albeit highly efficient.


    We slow to scan ammo rooms and crates full of supplies, from a hundred different alloys in dust form (ready to be welded by a nanofactory) to replacement blast doors, this bunker has it all. Sometimes piled along the central corridor and sometimes stacked from floor to ceiling in connected supply rooms, this bunker has everything we need to build an army worthy of Mordor Montana.


    I can see it in my mind¡¯s eye. Wraith fighters attacking unsuspecting Collective bioships from the safety of cloaking fields, their weakass lasers replaced with Juggernaut plasma plasma cannons. A hundred vikings working together to bring down a Technocracy sphere, but the Azhurai¡­ No Starcraft design seems able to combat that particular race. Maybe Protoss void rays could concentrate firepower but we lack the technology to emulate the Firstborn¡¯s advanced tech. Tempests would work splendidly, but I repeat myself.


    I swallow, knowing their fortress is next. I¡¯m about to get a crash course in Conglomerate warfare, real warriors, and not the sculpted scouts of their drone spam.


    ¡°Work the problem.¡± I repeat, focusing on the present challenges.


    Our squad is starting to scatter more than I like, Kerrigan jogs ahead, maintaining pace with the lings but distancing herself from us.


    ¡°Hey Kerrigan, be careful alright? You are the only one I can¡¯t replace. Why don¡¯t we let Helen take point for a bit.¡± I tight beam, wondering how many miles of tunnel are down here.


    ¡°Pfina, I hear them.¡± Whispers Kerrigan, increasing her pace once more.


    She¡¯s jogging now, running into the darkness faster than the Lings.


    ¡°Kerrigan! There is at least one tank left down here! Slow down.¡± I shout, chasing after her.


    Barker easily passes me, ridiculously fit beneath his armor. Helen takes a few moments longer to catch us, and hangs a few paces behind me. Not wanting to overtake the boss. Or because she¡¯s a coward who somehow passed that trait onto her symbiote. If Kerrigan weren¡¯t frolicing through the death star¡¯s trench, I would have contemplated what a host being able to influence their symbiote implied.


    It never occurred to me that Helen might have read Kerrigan¡¯s mind and has every reason to be scared shitless.


    ¡°Barker, keep her safe!¡± I shout.


    ¡°Yessir!¡± He calls back, not remotely out of breath.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    In fact I can hardly tell he¡¯s been running. The soldier is so thoroughly within his element one could mistake him for enjoying a garden traipse! We pass dozens of cubbies and storage rooms, some with dead technicians, more without. That¡¯s odd. For Technocracy HQ we should be seeing a multilayered fortress with thousands of occupants, not a dark hole with sporadic victims of a single headshot. Dirt alone shields from EMPs once you go deep enough, a proof we see in the growing number of functioning lights. Base power is still operational. Which means the defenses are still active.


    ¡°Kerrigan! Ah- Slow down!¡± I radio, panting for air.


    We¡¯re already three miles down the tunnel, were the length purely depth, we¡¯d be further below ground than airplanes dream of flying above ground.


    ¡°Base power is on! Ah- Enemies! Ah- Not hit with- EMP!¡± I shout, my voice falling on deaf ears as the lings bolt. Ling1 and Lingling2 recognize Kerrigan as a packleader and follow her at full speed, rocketing ahead in every sense of the term ¡®meat missiles¡¯. While Barker manages to catch Kerrigan, drafting off her wake.


    She¡¯s leading us deeper into the bunker, past turn offs and branching hallways. Any of these rooms could be a barracks or checkpoint filled with combat specialists not the technicians we are familiar with.


    ¡°Kerrigan! Slow- Down!¡± I shout again.


    No lights are extinguished down here. The EMP¡¯s effects never reached this deep underground. Our suit lights automatically dim then switch off, no longer necessary. Kerrigan is too far ahead, not listening. I touch the collective¡¯s mind, specifically reaching out to Barker alone.


    ¡®Too deep! We¡¯ll be ambushed at this rate. Can you stop without harming her?¡¯


    ¡®Yes sir! I¡¯ll tackle her legs and bring the suit down then dog pile with the lings sir. Might catch a shiner but she¡¯ll be no worse for wear.¡¯ Answers Barker in perfect old-school English. Like a particularly fit John Wayne.


    I couldn¡¯t help it. Laughter crippled my run, howling at the man whose so verbally illiterate we named him Barker, yet possesses a mind capable of thinking so eloquently. Legs falter, forced to move by the power armor. Uncomfortable but necessary to avoid tumbling.


    I¡¯m about to order the tackle when Kerrigan darts sideways, planting both feet and skidding to a halt before staggering back to a door she just passed. A closed door. Until now most rooms didn¡¯t have any form of door or gate. Sure the flammable munitions had a closed and sealed blast door, but that was a rare and labeled room. Nothing out of the ordinary there. This door was raw. Unpainted and sealed. A keypad and screen are set into the side console, so mundane yet a glaring oddity in a bunker without any doors of its kind.


    Its just not their style, locked doors should have two data ports for technicians or engineers to enter their suit¡¯s tentacles or data jacks and identify with a verbal pickup to provide secondary authorization as required.


    Purple light pours through Kerrigan¡¯s faceshield, so bright the shield darkens to pitch black, outlining her face. Almost as if someone drew on her visor with chalk. Ironically giving Kerrigan the appearance of the first profile picture I unlocked in Wings of Liberty. She presses the buttons in sequence and the door hisses open. Air rushing out due to positive pressure. Before I can stop her both lings jump after her, Barker too, and the door begins to slide shut.


    ¡°Kerrigan! Don¡¯t leave me behind!¡± I cry, sprinting for the door.


    But her lead is too great. Seconds tick by, the blastdoor closing faster than I can run. The inevitable severing of our bond closes and latches shut before my eyes.


    ¡°What¡¯s the code!¡± I tight beam, then swear.


    We have no visual relay. The only requirement of tight beams. If I want Kerrigan to answer I¡¯ll have to go active on the transmission and hope it''s strong enough to penetrate this blast door. If anyone is alive down here, they¡¯ll see me light up like a christmas tree.


    I¡¯m about to blow my cover when Helen taps my shoulder, rifle in hand. She¡¯s pointing down the corridor towards an advancing skimmer. Antigrav keeps a half dozen Technomancy soldiers afloat, each armed with a flechette pistol, shoulder mounted mortar, and most terrifyingly a medium railgun. Slow to fire but effective against all targets.


    A brown camouflage pattern coats their armor, the reason why I didn¡¯t notice them earlier as they visually merged with the tunnel¡¯s undied walls. Tremorsense failed to detect the antigrav sled, which really is my own failing. I¡¯ve been overconfident. Too trusting in borrowed tools.


    ¡°Aw shit, play it cool Helen. Let¡¯s not start a shooting battle.¡± I hiss, lying through my teeth.


    Kerrigan is gone, the only ally not bonded to me by total mind control.


    What did I do wrong?


    My finger moves into the pulser¡¯s triggerguard. I can certainly kill one of the advancing foes before the others respond, if I¡¯m lucky the shot will cause them to bunch up and I can score a second kill. But those railguns, they¡¯re made to penetrate medium armor. Guaranteed to pierce half my suit and probably blow out my back too. In a straight gunfight I don¡¯t stand a chance. Helen will die, but that feels like a relief rather than a dread.


    ¡°Please just pass us by.¡± I mutter, not realizing how conspicuous two soldiers with alien rifles standing outside a locked and keypadded door is.


    The sled slows, angling towards us. They¡¯re onto us. My rifle won¡¯t work but a grenade might, especially if I wait until they¡¯re close and warp it under their sled. I frantically begin searching the warp HUD, so focused that I never see the six railguns rise to point in our direction, nor do I notice the door open behind me. A gauntlet closes on my shoulder, yanking me sideways as the stealth hunter pounces.


    Helen¡¯s voice leaks into our collective mind, not angry, nor energetic, in fact it¡¯s the cold intonation of a bored woman.


    ¡°Oh shit.¡±


    She dives away from me, bringing up her rifle and unleashing a full auto maelstrom at the combat troopers. A beam of blue plasma vents from her rifle, distorting as she cloaks and rolls. Bright blue, so radically hot it burns red afterimages into my eyes, flings across the Novan soldiers like silly string. Armor melts under temperatures that belong in the sun¡¯s core. Two soldiers are cut in half before the stealth hunter¡¯s teeth finds prey.


    Active camouflage breaks with speed, revealing a many limbed tiger. Crystalline plates sparkle instead of fur, with chitin and elongated claws. Lightning arcs from predator to prey. Glass shatters, weakened by the electricity coursing through six soldiers at once. Six railguns fire in unison as all fingers lock shut on their guns. Teeth clench, backs arch, and I see the stealth hunter for what it is. A Wings of Liberty Predator complete with lightning field and cloak, finally living the dream of being useful.


    Saberteeth punch through a faceshield, yanking it back before the head darts into the opening, one clawed paw pinning the HELP system so the hunter can feed. Diamond teeth close on the man¡¯s head biting through bones like a soda can-


    -Blastdoor seals in front of me, concealing the fight.


    I look back and see Kerrigan in her armor, dragging me into a painfully bright room.


    ¡°I won¡¯t leave you behind.¡± She whispers.


    Looking around the room, part of me wishes she had.


    [+6 dead and heavily damaged Novan Marines]

 Chapter 37 In for a Penny, in for a ‘Pound her Harder’ (Pun. No Sex)

    Railguns fire, one shot impacting the blast door right where my head was a second earlier. The drum of a plasma pistol beats in a deeply flawed tune against the sharp cracks of railguns alternating until the final shot of both overlap and the corridor outside falls silent.


    A dueling duet I hear none of.


    Within the lab I see the truth of what Kerrigan is. Tubes, vertical and glass in appearance, stand along the walls, stacked horizontally to maximize space. Robots in sealed white suits move back and forth, cycling the tubes, liquid sloshes inside, with one solid object floating at their center. Some bob low in green fluids, others float high above rich purples, and a few are crystal clear displaying their contents with the clarity of a magnifying glass. One occupant floats within each tube -never more than one- sometimes feline, sometimes humanoid, sometimes arachnoid, always unpleasant. For they bear a terrifying resemblance to the Umojan labs the Queen of Blades once lay waste to.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Red took me from here,¡± Kerrigan says, walking across the room to a tube of clear fluid, now housing a human in the early stages of development, possibly fetal, maybe a newborn, I¡¯m no doctor so it''s impossible to guess.


    ¡°I was awake the entire time.¡± She whispers.


    There is an edge to her voice I¡¯ve never heard before. Something that thunders to


    STOP!


    Go no farther.


    Or there will be consequences you will never recover from.


    ¡°You were awake the whole time? Uhm, how old are you?¡± I blurt out, like an idiot.


    ¡°The lights never shut off. Not in here. You see, they¡¯re trying to make more like me,¡± her voice changes, perfectly mimicking a voice I¡¯ve never heard before. A man¡¯s voice, but one who has had his throat cut out and replaced with some sort of electronic synthesizer. ¡°Yes yes. In due time. First we must perfect the genome, only then can we install logical hardware to iron out the inconsistencies of flesh. Ahhhh if only we could scan and categorize each psychic empirically and predict likely outcomes.¡± She rasps.


    A shudder runs down my spine. Her mimickry once again more than my inflexible mind can bear, stacking tokens of information like a Jenga tower.


    The Novan Technomancy is ruled by computers, humans are subservient to their decrees and any who disagree with that have their ¡®wetware¡¯ surgically replaced with cybernetics until compliance is achieved. What they planned to do with my Kerrigan strikes a chord deep within me. A chord that resonates a bloody red.


    ¡°Kerrigan, we can shut down this lab, leave this to me. There are memories here you do not want to resurrect, so let me erase them for you. No need to dig up- the past.¡± I finish.


    Narrowly avoiding saying, ¡®dig up your parents¡¯. How she has memories of a life before this lab and being trapped inside it for god knows how long is something I¡¯ll never ask.


    She doesn¡¯t seem to hear me. Her tail flicks, swishing angrily as robots move tubes. One steps an inch too close and the stinger slams into its eyehole, shattering the plastic face and plunging into an empty sphere of a skull. Nonplussed, the simple bot continues on with its task. Unawares there was any danger at all.


    ¡®Boss, we took out the sled but more are on their way. Gotta bug out.¡¯ Whispers Helen over the swarmmind.


    ¡®Stay safe first. Then do what you can to support me. Cloak if necessary and warn me if anything make it through that keypadded door.¡¯ I reply.


    ¡®Yes sir.¡¯


    How she and a zerg kitten took out six Technomancy combat specialists is a film I¡¯m itching to see, but that¡¯ll have to wait. My hand finds Kerrigan¡¯s shoulder, tingling as if she is vibrating. I¡¯ve felt this before, when Kerrigan unleashed her latent psychic ability and more recently when Trinity broke our brains.


    My hand trembles, not yet recovered from the mental feedback. But Kerrigan needs me now more than ever. I swallow the fear, finding my words.


    ¡°Hey friend. I¡¯m right here. You are not alone.¡±


    My offer breezes through her fugue, dispelling the fog over her eyes.


    ¡°Pfina, I want this to end. They shouldn¡¯t be here. They never should have been made.¡± Kerrigan hoists her rifle gesturing to the pods with its muzzle.


    Yet she does not pull the trigger. I can sense the reason why. Some part of this little girl, or scorpion cat, whatever the hell she is, knows that the floating shapes are part of her. So similar, likely made from her very own cells, twins or clones.


    ¡°Not like that. Lets find a control panel and save them gently.¡± I say.


    It occurs to me that we should probably just recycle the lot of them and use the biomass to make more Barkers but this is the closest thing Kerrigan will ever have to a family. Blasting them in their conscious sleep feels appallingly wrong. Like shooting your quadriplegic grandma in the face instead of unplugging her life support. The end result might be the same, but one leaves fewer scars. And I want to use the wheelchair later. For science.


    Whatever experiments occurred in this lab, I want to understand. Whatever manipulations altered Kerrigan from her basal form into the bioweapon she is now fascinates me. Enthralling my mind with questions, and possibilities. What could Hygieia make with the secrets of this lab?


    Kerrigan points towards a doorway as a robot steers an antigrav sled through it.


    ¡°Recycler is through there.¡± She says, already walking away.


    I glance at Barker, mentally saying ¡®Keep an eye on her. Keep her safe.¡¯


    ¡®Yes sir!¡± Answers Barker and the two elder lings, already riding her shadow to another well lit room.


    On a whim I contact Hygieia, sending her mental snapshots of this laboratory.


    >Terran Thena: I could use some reinforcements.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hmmmmm


    >Matriarch Hygieia: do not break those tubes


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I recognize this process for evolution


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you take a base creature then improve it


    >Matriarch Hygieia: and subjuect it to external pressures. I see acid baths nerve gases and a healing serum


    Four juvenile lings, shitzu sized, with monkey tails, lon and prehensile, warp around us. White clad robots move hither and thither against white flooring and walls, dodging the lings. Better to have them here with us, gaining experience and maturing with their exemplary elders to show them the way.


    My pulser set to semi auto for precision coils within whine to life preparing to give all that they have. I¡¯m the last to enter the next room.


    White lights banish all shadows, lining the ceiling in a preposterously gaudy array of LED strips. Packed so densely the ceiling could be mistaken for a skylight at noon. Where some earlier segments of the tunnel had only been equipped with a single strip. Visor polarizes, rapidly dialing past outside illumination and into shielding only appropriate for space operations, where we would be unprotected by an atmosphere or magnetic field.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    A colossal figure stands at the far end of the room, surrounded by cyborgs who are more machine than man, all sealed within sleek black armor. Similar to a HALO spartan but bulkier, as if Master Chief retired, became Master Chef and cooked himself into obesity then got recalled to active duty and was stuffed into a suit with a direct drip feed of Human Growth Hormone and Testosterone. A month of working out later, and you behold the result of that dirty bulk in the four ballooned cyborgs.


    Robots present the tubes to various cyborgs, who accept the tubes or reject them in a constant stream of activity, directed by the maestro in red. The Director, a Technomancer in the flesh, one of the rare humans who has risen to the AI¡¯s attention and deemed to be irreplaceable. A moniker that grants them the red robes.


    Red robes.


    -Red-


    ¡°Oh shit.¡± I whisper


    Kerrigan¡¯s faceplate whooshes back, revealing her face for all to see. None of the black cyborgs respond, carrying on as usual, simply going about their business. One empties a tube into a chute, flushing away a living clone of Kerrigan. Her keen eyes flick open just in time for the fluid to carry her away. An industrial recycler will break up her component molecules into universally necessary compounds, but all I see is a much younger, wide eyed and clear skinned Kerrigan asking if I¡¯m her friend, extending her hand towards me in the last gesture she will ever make.


    Then she disappears down the recycling chute.


    It¡¯s too late to save her.


    Anger makes you do funny things at times, scream, flail, howl, and shout.


    Often you act rashly.


    But rarely, only in particularly extreme moments of fury, my anger flies through insanity and arrives at cold logic, hastened by adrenaline.


    My aim has never been so true, the first shot hits the distant cyborg. Followed by a second shot that leaves my barrel while the first one is still aloft, in transit to the cyborg¡¯s skull.


    I¡¯m not taking any chances with these combat models and turn to double tap the next heavy trooper when Ling1 and Lingling2 collide with him, tackling the man and savaging with coordinated rakes of claws and teeth. Barker blasts the third, taking six shots to melt the faceplate and skull within. Driven by my fury.


    Six shots. My rifle tracks back to the first guard and I find him leveling a rifle at the nearest ling. He fires as I do, projectiles crossing in air. We both fire a second shot before the first lands, me heightened by adrenaline and him by logic cores. Two railgun projectiles blow through the newborn lings like they''re popped balloons. Blood explodes into pink mist and I fire a third shot killing the guard fully. As there is no head remaining.


    I swing, wondering who the last cyborg will slay when I find him wresting with Barker, the two power armors tumbling across the floor. Barker¡¯s tech suit is modified to be heavier, despite that, he looks like a dwarf wrestling an Ogre. I aim carefully and fire, my shot is true, I''ll hit directly atop the crown of cyborg¡¯s head. Green shielding flares. My shot disintegrating against the peerless protection.


    Thank god I¡¯m not waiting for a reaction. My second and third shots impact before I realize the futility, and my fifth, sixth, seventh shots all connect, dropping his shields. His armor shifts, the loss of his shields dropping him a few inches. Just enough for Barker to savage abdomen. Metal claws tear into armor, slipping between plates and slashing deeply into the soldier¡¯s gut, disembowling the larger fighter. He gives no reaction of pain, shifting into the blow and rolling to Launch Barker out of his grasp. A smart move, Barker is a melee specialist and this cyborg¡¯s best weapon is the rifle strapped to his back.


    I never stop firing. Not even when Barker flies through the air crashing through two occupied tubes. Two beings die, at least they aren¡¯t Kerrigan. Who hasn¡¯t moved at all during the fight. She¡¯s the fastest of all of us, yet she hasn¡¯t moved an inch. Eyes locked on-


    ¡°-Red.¡± Kerrigan says, her voice faint, as if sleeptalking.


    ¡°Troublesome experiment.¡± Says red, mechanical eyes blinking faster than I can process.


    Some kind of message or neurological algorithm.


    >Executrix Alaea: Kerrigan¡¯s acid capsules just popped. Didn¡¯t realize the crystal vials doubled as explosives.


    Focused as I am, the puzzle clicks immediately. Red just executed Kerrigan. Or would have.


    ¡°Troublesome indeed.¡± Grumbles Red, glancing around at his fallen guards. ¡°No matter. Project 0003, kill the intruders.¡±


    ¡°These are my friends.¡± Says Kerrigan, cocking her head to the side.


    Yet her tail coils, winding for a strike.


    >Terran Thena: Red is here. Get ready.


    >Executrix Alaea: I know you care about her, but¡­


    >Terran Thena: Get ready!


    ¡°They are liars, tricksters! They absconded with you! Don¡¯t you see that Red is your only friend? Kill them, kill them and you may return to my family. I¡¯ve got your parents too, I saved them from these filthy animals.¡± Says red, sweeping back robes to reveal more steel tentacles than all the octopi in the Pacific ocean.


    Kerrigan¡¯s eyes begin to glow a lethal purple.


    I need to act.


    Targeting reticules center on Red¡¯s face, and I squeeze the trigger. My shot of yellow plasma zips out of existence. Not just deflected, but perfectly countered by whatever shielding tech protects the Technomancer. For the first time I¡¯m not surprised by enemy shields. Full auto engages on my rifle, emptying the reactor in a single beam of golden energy so bright it almost conceals Kerrigan¡¯s betrayal.


    Her tail severs Ling1¡¯s head and in a second she¡¯s tossed his corpse into my plasma stream. Proving everything I¡¯ve feared concerning her origins. She is a bioweapon, no longer in control of her own actions. Rage crushes all other emotions, pushing my mind forward onto solutions. In my endless fury the problem is solved the only way I can.


    >Terran Thena: Warp Kerrigan into status. NOW.


    Kerrigan¡¯s outline halts midair body locked into place as the teleportation begins. We¡¯ve known Kerrigan could have suffered Novan programming, and this was our final failsafe to keep her alive. A stopgap until flashtraining could be cleared.


    ¡°Please forgive me for sending you away.¡± I whisper, side stepping her outline and retrieving one of the elite guard¡¯s railguns.


    It¡¯ll be minutes before my own pulser will be ready to go and Red needs killing right this second. My own suit tentacles grasp the marine¡¯s shoulder mounted grenade launcher, manually actuating it and firing twice. Yellow smoke begins to fill the room, some kind of chemical warfare.


    ¡°Uh¡­ shit.¡± I hiss, praying my gas mask will prove effective.


    ¡°Hmmrrm. Surrounded by incompetents. Bah, no matter.¡± Says Red, his tentacles pushing against the floor to act as hundreds of legs.


    ¡°Man, never thought I''d wish for Hygieia¡¯s centipede instead.¡± I mutter.


    My technician suit is familiar with the railgun, targeting systems adjust automatically connecting it to my reactors only to find I¡¯m underpowered for its thirst. Two quick shots are all I get before it begins a recharge cycle, five seconds before the gun will be effective again. An eternity.


    Red ignores the slugs, his shielding stalwart as tentacles undulate an object forward. I ready myself to face some fifth soldier and instead find a tube emerging from Red¡¯s inguinal region. I blink. Wondering who has more limbs and innuendo, Red, or the Japanese hentai industry. If what I''m seeing is any indication, the balance might be in this Technomancer¡¯s favor.


    ¡°You¡­ Serious right now? Dick artillery? How- Why?¡± I stammer, not finding the words.


    Not that I can, the artillery piece glows a royal purple, so dark it distorts light around the muzzle. Some kind of gravity altering cannon, in his crotch.


    Red cackles with laughter, already assuming he has won.


    ¡°God, what an ego, replacing your cock with a gravity cannon? I shout, taking two steps forward and spear throwing my stolen railgun right up his cannon hole.


    Which also happens to be what I want to do to Bazzhole and Whorely, but we can save them for another day. Becoming queen of Earth is higher on the list than petty revenge. Metal clinks against metal, and Red, still howling with glee, sees the railgun get sucked into his barrel, pulled into the anomaly by the same gravitational forces that he meant to extirpate us.


    Unlike an autocannon, railguns, coilguns, and all sorts of energy rifles have sensitive electronics contained within their barrels. Often including wires that connect to super capacitors capable of incredible electrical discharges.


    Railgun capacitors charge instantly -suddenly overjuiced by rifle shorting their circuits together- and empty its mag into the emitter. As a railgun requires no chemical propellant or brass case to hold propellant the railgun slugs are usually a highly dense magnetic penetrator formed into a rod, which stacks into magazines at incredible capacities. This magazine is only the size of a human Pmag, but it holds nearly two hundred slugs. Well, held.


    All of those rip through Red¡¯s internals shredding all pretense of gravitas in his inguinal region.


    ¡°Boss, catch!¡± Shouts Barker, tossing me his pulse rifle and switching to solarium axe. Gold light halos a second before the cannon explodes.


    Light, space, and time itself suddenly vanish into a sphere ten feet wide only to collapse in on itself, crushed under forces I can¡¯t imagine. The heat and pressure creates a spherical black emerald that drops beneath Red¡¯s- uhm¡­ Hard to say exactly what is left of Red, there¡¯s a cape, a whole spaghetti of tentacles, though it looks like a dozen lings ate through the center of those, and his human torso. All chrome and steel.


    Lightened by the loss of mass, Red scuttles like a hundred disgustingly conjoined spiders, tentacles grasping floor, walls, pods, on their way to me. I backpedal, trying to fight off the grasping steel limbs. I punch, tear, kick, and rip a dozen tentacles as Red¡¯s shielding warps into the gravity distortion.


    It is not enough. Scores of Red¡¯s graspers claw at my armor, catching one arm and slithering around it to bind me. The borrowed pulser is knocked aside, skidding across the floor. I hear Barker howling and hacking, but that does nothing to reassure me as more tendrils encircle me, constricting until I¡¯m pinned to the floor, arms immobilized and spread eagle, legs held open by fifty steel tentacles.


    Two slam against the HELP system, keeping my faceplate vulnerable as two more suction against it, starting to peel off my armor. Which is when I realize how super-completely-extremely-fucked I am. Bad hentai always end one way, and it¡¯s not good for the woman.


    For me.

 Chapter 38 As if I would be that Gross in a Starcraft Comedy

    Red leans in close to savor his victory, I can only imagine where he is going to shove those appendages or what kind of experiments he¡¯ll run on me. Probably the useless kind with a foregone conclusion. I¡¯ll have none of that.


    As if I have a choice¡­


    Tentacles peel back my faceplate, other appendages latching onto edges and pulling, unzipping my suit faster than I knew was possible. There¡¯s no choice now, I hit the eject button, not the quick release option. Oh no. The big red -press-only-in-case-of-emergency- EJECT button.


    This suit is 100% scrapped, but it can be replaced unlike my thicccass. Explosive bolts trigger in highly shaped explosions launching fragments of armor and metal in every direction. Tentacles retract to avoid damage, but I¡¯m not aiming at them.


    My FNX, complete with hybrid tritium / fiber-optic irons line up with Red¡¯s face. Hammer falls, detonating the first of seventeen shots. My aim is off.


    Lead pierces his hand tearing through sensitive graspers and a dozen separate dataports. This is my father¡¯s gift, to keep away the wrong sort of boy. Perfect for the evil Doctor Octopus named Red.


    ¡°You BITCH!¡± Howls red, glancing from his hand to me.


    A mistake as it aligns his eyes -the only things vulnerable to my Earthling pistol- with my sights. Slide cycles, a new round chambered, I fire as quickly as possible. Sixteen rounds fly at glowing optical implants, shattering each in quick succession. Half my shots accomplish little, missing him entirely. Turns out a moving head is super hard to hit.


    The other half find their target in puffs of electronic dust. Red recoils, blinded by lead.


    *click*


    Slide locks open, magazine depleted.


    I bunch my legs, pulling them to my chest hard enough to roll over my head and onto my feet. Then I sprint for the door, reloading magazines before I look back. Barker is still hacking away, he¡¯s a third of the way through Red¡¯s mass of tentacles, impressive, but once the Technomancer turns around-


    -¡±YOU FUCKING BITCH! I¡¯LL KILL YOU! FLAY YOU ALIVE AND SHRED THAT EXPERIMENT BEFORE YOUR EYES! THEN TURN THE KNIFE ON YOU!¡± Screams Red, managing to be heard through my ringing ears.


    Hygieia might have to replace those if I survive. My own fury tamps the pain, I pull the trigger, taking careful seconds to aim between shots. Red¡¯s face comes apart, biological masses separating from the cybernetic superstructure.


    But Red has the last laugh.


    Five shots in his shields recharge, deflecting my shots and Barker alike. Then the Red cunt teleports away, one last promise echoing from backup speakers, as if a Karen is shouting at you through her backup camera. Awkward, annoying, and as dumb as it is infuriating.


    ¡°You cunt. One day you discover the joys of my scalpels. You will be my possession or I will see Kerrigan burnt to ashes around you.¡±


    ¡°Idiot. That¡¯s not the line!¡± I shout, picking up a railgun and realizing this bitch is more than fifty pounds; Aint no way I¡¯m lifting that without power armor.


    Red warps out, not like my warp which takes a few seconds, but more like a stalker¡¯s blink. One picosecond he is there, the next he¡¯s gone. Probably humping a shield battery somewhere in the hopes of replacing his blown off manhood.


    >Executrix Alaea: Suit Ejection? Warp in a new suit idiot!


    >Terran Thena: How is Kerrigan?


    >Executrix Alaea: Screaming. Nearly crushed my nanofactories but she¡¯s in stasis now. You hit the name perfectly, even though she¡¯s no queen of blades.


    >Terran Thena: Take care of her.


    >Executrix Alaea: Always.


    I warp down a new suit, standard tech model this time, the only model not already damaged, and survey the casualty list. Our Lings are dead, and for the first time since I¡¯ve known him Barker is sitting down.


    ¡°You alright?¡± I call, working my way to him after warping the cyborgs to Hygieia and their suits to Alaea. Tanking six plasma shots to the face shouldn¡¯t be possible, so I am taking absolutely zero chances and separating them from their gear ASAP!


    Barker raises a Thumbs up. Red blood trickles down his armor. He¡¯s wounded. Otherwise the damn idiot would still be yapping at me.


    ¡°How bad is it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine boss. Just need a minute to catch my breath. Them big ones stepped on me.¡± He says, flashing a crooked smile.


    Maybe it''s the hive mind I¡¯ve somehow been adopted into, but I know he¡¯s full of shit. More than twelve ribs are broken and his armor is compromised. I can see the cracks across twice reinforced armor plates. The Soldiers crushed him with raw strength, only possible due to the extreme difference in suit specs. Holographic repair options appear across the HUD, all suggesting the abdomen of his suit is ruined, smashed to hell and in need of total replacement.


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯ve lost or been cut off from my whole squad. Got another wave?


    >Executrix Alaea: hehehe, try out these E-Reapers.


    Six black suits appear, taking a full minute to warp into my proximity. All are Emu-rines, birdfaced and too slender for humanity. This armor is custom fit as well, half the width and probably half the weight of a tech¡¯s armor. Except, volume scales nonlinearly with weight, making them closer to a quarter the net mass. Practically a featherweight.


    ¡°Ah, glad to be back sir!¡± Says Emurine, now wearing the bars of a corporal. As if he¡¯s been promoted by anything other than experience.


    ¡°What? Didn¡¯t Hygieia just cook you up?¡±


    He taps his birdbrained noggin, ¡°We reincarnate with all the old memories, same for the older lings. Takes a few days for everything to come back, but it¡¯s there.¡± He finishes, closing the faceshield and giving a few orders. The Ereapers clear the lab and tube storage, making sure all severed tentacles are scrapped with their dual plasma pistols.


    I blink in amazement. Reapers with plasma pistols! Hell yeah! It¡¯s like turning a reaper into the Planet-ary cracking insanity of an Immortal. Except the reapers have jetbacks to escape situations. If we weren¡¯t fighting through an underground bunker.


    ¡°Maybe birds were not the right choice for this game of cat and mouse¡­ Or uhm, Death-star-laser-tank and bird?¡± I mutter.


    ¡®Boss, we cleared out our tunnel, looks like it was still under construction, captured some drilling excavators and grav sleds down this way. Electronics fried, but we can rebuild em later. Headed your way now. Hygieia¡¯s already remodeling with slug and roaches. Tunnel one can be our second biomass farm, and air purifier. Got enough free booty down here for a dozen supply bunkers and just as many biopools.¡¯ Thinks Wormface, speaking to me via the collective as our radios can be intercepted within the bunker.


    At least, until we take full control of the Artificial Intelligence governing it.


    ¡®Thanks. Barker¡¯s a bit beat up and Kerrigan. Is¡­ uh-¡¯ Our link communicates everything in an instant sharing more information than I ever wished to divulge.


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    ¡®She¡¯s a strong lass. Won¡¯t be long before she¡¯s back in action.¡¯ Wormface assures me, although I get the feeling he wouldn¡¯t mind sending in a symbiote to set her brain straight.


    I can¡¯t bear the idea, before I know it I¡¯m down, crying my eyes out next to Barker. Wailing incoherently into the confines of my suit. Grateful that no one can hear me scream in space.


    ¡ª(Switch to Wormface¡¯s perspective)---


    We were grateful when Athena mutes her coms, no soldier should ever hear their commander¡¯s despair. But we are one. Pain cannot be hidden from the whole. It clouds our thoughts, hastening our steps with an urgency to make it stop. Our steps lengthen, increasing inch by inch until we are sprinting down the tunnel reaming every alcove and stack of recycled sludge rations with active sensor sweeps.


    AI be damned, it already knows we are here. Let it try and stop us.


    Emurine is holding tight, at least ten plasma pistols aimed at the keypad door.


    If any Novans are left we¡¯re glowing on their scanners and giving them a thousand opportunities to shoot us in the face. Our ally, Spiderman, falls a few steps behind, knowing we can take a headshot and survive but he cannot. That is why we are Sergeant. Red emergency lights guide our sprint. Only replaced by a row of standard white light near the tunnel¡¯s end.


    This tunnel is unoccupied.


    ¡®Matriarch, tunnel found with great quantity of supplies.¡¯ We think, sending messages back to our high commander.


    ¡®Good, sending the remodelers. Help Athena. Do not allow her to be harmed.¡¯ Orders Hygieia.


    ¡®Yes sir!¡¯ We reply.


    We plant our feet, skidding across exposed dirt to kill our momentum. The digging centipede begins to warp in, a train of legs I have no time for. We kick off, sprinting back up the tunnel to our second in command, Mistress Athena. With Spiderman hot on my heels. In minutes our power armor carries us through the bunker, strides lengthened into enormous bounds, only limited by the low vertical ceilings. Ereapers would have been faster here, but they are in position, protecting what matters most. We cover the miles of tunnel to resume clearing the second tunnel, slowing to a methodical clear where Kerrigan¡¯s fall began. We hold up one arm, signalling a halt.


    ¡®Helen. Report.¡¯ We order.


    The worm piloted trooper uncloaks to our left, occupying a doorway. Her suit is in a bad way, right arm entirely ripped off and a large part of her left hip missing. In fact, so much is gone that at least one buttcheek aint there.


    ¡°Boss got separated and caught in a crossfire. Suit computer is gone too. Can¡¯t hit shit like this so I pulled back.¡±


    ¡°Sensible retreat. If you didn¡¯t abandon your mission.¡± We say, surveying the tunnel.


    Unlike the simple first tunnel this has a slight downward grade as well as a bend, with certain alcoves positioned to catch rolled grenades or otherwise divert explosive forces. A small defensive feature that means something down here is worth protecting.


    ¡°No sir!¡± Boss is behind a sealed door. Her orders. If I retreat she can requisition my cloaking device at a later time sir.¡± Answers Helen, trembling with the exertion.


    She¡¯s stiff. Calling a sergeant a sir. Might be the wounds, might be her inability to read our minds.


    ¡°Trooper-¡± We begin, immediately correcting ourself, she has been entrusted with a cloaking module. ¡°-Specialist Helen, relax. We- ahem, I understand your motives. She ordered you to withdraw. That is sufficient. Sir is a title for commanders only, not warriors. Lets get moving.¡± We say, heading down the tunnel.


    Our omniscient Matriarch sends us six lings -the last of her protectors- newborns all, but suitable for scouting. Our tremorsense doubles in diameter warning us of any motion and the serenity of many minds working together spreads through our swarm, only for its ripples to bounce off Helen¡¯s wound.


    ¡°No, tremorsense doesn¡¯t pick up antigrav sleds. Keep your eyes open.¡± Helen calls, limping along behind us.


    We catch sight of two symbiotes working on her, clotting the ragged edge of her arm. The missing hip is more concerning, as it would be fatal in a normal human. Combat efficiency reduced beyond effective levels.


    ¡°Good catch.¡± We say, gripping our pulser a little tighter.


    We shift to the outside wall, maximizing our vision with the tunnel¡¯s bend while the lings shift to the other wall, maximizing cover. Then we clear. Each alcove is swept, every door opened, each closet or supply room run through by lings. Alaea watches our sensors, marking and warping materials as she wills. This is no satellite base, but a fully occupied bunker. No temporal locks secure the cargoes here, not when there ought to be soldiers present.


    Yet¡­


    All is quiet.


    Fifty rooms later the contents begin to shift. This far down another strip of lighting appears, undamaged by the EMP while the individual storage rooms take on a more uniformed appearance. Dirt has been reinforced with a sort of self leveling epoxy. Storage areas are spaced evenly apart with one compression alcove between each, a regular defensive pattern to provide defenders with cover or keep shockwaves from collapsing multiple rooms.


    It''s in one of these alcoves we find our first Novan opposition. Two technicians sit atop a grav sled, flechette launchers at the ready.


    ¡°Who goes there?¡± Comes over an open channel.


    We school our voice to be equally monotone, lowering our rifle so as not to provoke them. But we do not stop walking.


    ¡°Technician 654548 responding to intruder alert. We cleared up to this point.¡± We report, reading the suit¡¯s serial number.


    ¡°Technician 654548. Checking. Do not advance further.¡± Says a guard, leveling his rifle at our faceplate.


    We risk three more steps, two won¡¯t be enough and four is pushing our luck. Lings halt just out of sight, Spiderman goes prone, crawling across the floor to try and catch an angle. His solarium augmented pulser has superior range and enough firepower to pop both these jackelopes.


    Another noise sounds behind me, one we¡¯re loathe to hear. A cloaking module activating with the unmistakable whine of insufficient power. Helen breezes past me, the scent of bleeding hangs tangy. A temptation to our baser instincts, of vestigial desires before the Collective added our world to the Endless. When worm colonies fed off the rotting and dead things of our world, acting as nature¡¯s janitor and our planet¡¯s only civilization.


    We consider yelling at the dumb bitch but a tight beam communique will be picked up by our enemies, how could it not, we are wearing identical suits after all. Their systems are meant to mesh and interlock into a cooperative whole.


    Ha, mimicking our Collective with machinery. Look at these fools. Look at what they require to mimic a fraction of our Unity. This is exactly why the Swarm shall conquer Syrak.


    ¡°Technician 654548. You are not listed. Who are you?¡± Says the technician.


    Radar locks and laser rangefinders align with our helmet, setting off friendly fire alerts throughout my suit. This is wrong, humans are easy to assimilate, but computers are not. Somewhere we¡¯ve gotten a code wrong, or opened up the wrong excel sheet and gotten stuck in an endless loop of loading. All while a gun presses against our head.


    ¡°I¡¯m a new arrival. Suit designation is 654548.¡± We answer.


    ¡°Fix your malfunction trooper. Has your wetware gone bad?¡±


    We stiffen, mimicking human reactions. A mistake. This is a coded challenge, answer wrong and they will fire without hesitation.


    ¡®Got a shot.¡¯ Thinks Spiderman.


    ¡®Firing now.¡¯ Responds Helen.


    She decloaks, faceplate open and gasmask removed. Something about her face makes the techs turn and gawk.


    Guess she must be terribly ugly.


    Can¡¯t blame her for that though, unlike us she is stuck with the face of imperfection, unable to present her most glistening worms. A pity of her birth, incapable of reformation like our own -imperious- bulb. Tis very curious. How can the humans press helmet buttons without cheek worms?


    Both technicians die to the first shot, our plasma rifles reestablishing their supremacy as anti tank weapons. Helen marks the bodies and commandeers the grav sled. Only to slump against it¡¯s floor, human body failing from blood loss.


    ¡°Damn. Thought my symbiote could patch me up.¡± Helen whispers, laying prone.


    ¡°Rest now soldier. Our Swarm endures because of your actions.¡± We say, marking her for Hygieia to warp out.


    [+2 biomass]


    [+2 technician armors]


    [-1 biomass]


    Logistical notifications appear in my HUD, small and in the top righthand corner. A whole biomass to repair two heads and Helen seems steep, but I am grateful Hygieia pays it instantly. A Matriarch who takes the time to reincarnate her warriors rather than replace them outright is a rare creature, making her all the more precious.


    She sees the value of experience and takes he necessary strides to preserve it in her servants. To maintain our feeble existences into immortality. Were our loyalty not hard coded into our DNA, she would have earned it then and there.


    ¡®Hey, this is Emurine. Boss is secure and we are ready to exit the lab. Can I get eyes on the exterior?¡¯ Tingles into our minds.


    ¡®Copy, heading there now.¡¯ We respond.


    Protect their approach. Not that any of these supply rooms are occupied. Not once have we found Novans within them. A pattern that repeats as we come within sight of another grav sled. Six black armored warriors stand in a semicircle around the door guns pointed skyward as the cyborgs hold position. We¡¯ve seen similar before, some mid level shot caller summoned these boys and forgot to mention the access code. Pure human incompetence. A failing the Collective never suffers from.


    ¡®You got enemies just outside.¡¯


    ¡®Roger that. Time to introduce these cunts to an explosive dingo.¡¯ Says Emurine, arming two demo charges.


    We hit the deck, followed by Spiderman who jams the controls forward. Grav fled heads straight, beginning to scrape against the wall, metal screeching against epoxy in a high pitched wail that turns six black facemasks our way.

 Chapter 39 Feels good to WIN

    Sccrrrreeeeeeeeeee


    Both our pulsers open fire, landing dead center mass of the enemy. Green shielding flares alive, the mark of real Novan combat armor. Six railguns rise, preparing to shoot us both when the door opens and all hell breaks loose.


    Ten plasma bolts slag a suit of combat armor, burning through shields, armor, then servos and flesh a half second later. There is hardly enough left of the soldier, certainly not enough to reclaim biomass from. Two railguns crack, one decimating a line, the other going wide.


    Demo charge flies through the air, machine augmented reactions readying to deflect the bomb. A sound tactic, made possible only due to precoded algorithms.


    Now made impossible by an Emu with the triggering switch.


    For three seconds the world goes shut. Our visors darken, explosion ripes through the tunnel, volume muted by our armor to protect eyes and ears for three entire seconds. Our grav sled catches on a doorway, halting. I override the HELP system, yanking open my helmet and visor.


    In front of us we find stumps of men, three cut in half, one entirely gone, and another thrown across the hallway. Extreme damage.


    Our pulsers pound in a heartbeat of deadly cannonade. No head survives our wrath, nor do we dare take chances with these particular elites.


    The next hour is spent clearing an empty tunnel, except for the final room -which we dare not enter while the AI remains unchecked- then cataloging our countless supplies. At first Hygieia and Alaea smile, then they laugh, then they howl hallelujah at the contents of the final room, a large enclosed space that must have served as the Technocracy¡¯s foundry. Now guarded by a single tank, flatter and boxier than a Juggernaut yet clearly built off the same design, bearing only one immense emiter for armaments. Two lings scout the tank, finding it to be a rare crewed vehicle, without an integrated pilot. We¡¯ve taken our half of the bunker.


    This time, we join in that cry.


    Finally Rousing Athena from her grief.


    [+1 Full scale Novan Primary Foundery, including reactor manufacturing and tank building capacity]


    [Juggernauts unlocked]


    ¨C(Back to Athena)---


    After I cried all the tears I had, silence forced me to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth. We needed to find Red or decipher what he used to make Kerrigan. Her condition must be similar to flash training, except it took. Implanting itself deeper into her psyche with each passing moment. I need help.


    I push off Barker, finding him very still.


    ¡°Hey Barker, thanks, uh, you¡¯re a great chest- erm- shoulder to cry on.¡± I stutter.


    ¡°Welcome.¡± Barker hisses, still on the verge of death.


    ¡°Oh shit! You should have said something!¡± I snap, tagging him and starting the process for a warp back to Hygieia.


    ¡°I¡¯ll live.¡± He says, moving one hand to his guts, where crimson life leaks between armor. ¡°Probably.¡± He finishes, disappearing.


    ¡°You idiot.¡± I hiss. ¡°Take care of yourself!¡± I shout at no one.


    I¡¯m alone in a cloning lab dedicated to stealing my best friend, it¡¯s time to leave.


    >Terran Thena: Hey Alaea, I need you to go through Red¡¯s Lab, I can¡¯t figure out any of this.


    My hope is that she¡¯ll take over everything, make my problem go away. Alaea is good at that, able to warp in and out of reality with a thought.


    >Executrix Alaea: TOUCH NOTHING


    >Executrix Alaea: NOT A SINGLE THING!


    >Executrix Alaea: NO TOUCHIE!!!


    Her words are a balm to my soul, an excuse to leave this wretched lab of unspeakable abominations.


    >Terran Thena: Yes maam. I¡¯m headed out.


    I leave just as a blue light washes over the lab, so similar to Alaea¡¯s first scans, back when I was cut in half. Gloved fingers run over my stomach, finding a hint of abdominal muscles there. A small consolation, but enough to make me grin. Cardio and portion control have been my life since landing on Syrak-9, a lifestyle enforced by carpet bombing.


    >Executrix Alaea: Damn. The lab is shielded¡­ Like, it¡¯s protected from my scans¡­


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    >Executrix Alaea: Oh shit.


    >Executrix Alaea: This might be a nameless side project. Unsanctioned psychic replication. But I do not understand why the nameless would allow such a thing, they can literally rubber stamp new psychics whenever they want so there isn¡¯t a benefit to a cloning operation like you are seeing.


    >Terran Thena: We¡¯ll worry about that later. All I care about is getting each and every clone out of those tubes. Some of them are alive, and the way Kerrigan spoke about them, I think Red filled all the tubes with acid.


    >Executrix Alaea: Do not touch anything down there. I know you want to break all the tubes open but not like this. You don¡¯t know if those tubes are full of nervegases or acids. There is a cloning technique that subjects a specimen to external damage in highly regulated quantities, down to the number of parts per trillion, if you start smashing things all willy nilly you could break open a nerve gas canister and die before you can finish the thought. DO. NOT. TOUCH.


    >Terran Thena: FINE.


    I want nothing more than to start emptying those tubes, unable to shake the vision of a young Kerrigan being flushed away. What her last thoughts might be before submolecular disassembly turns her into protein sludge. Out of spite I take Barker¡¯s solarium ax to the drones, hacking them into tiny pieces.


    ¡°Soon, you will all be free.¡± I whisper, heading out to rejoin my team.


    On my way I bury my face in the resources we¡¯ve collected. Seeing the values measured in tonnage makes my head spin. Forget Hygieia¡¯s bioship, find me a starport and let¡¯s hook up TWO battlecruisers with a whole complement of bioships to act as chaff.


    The age old question of ¡®who called in the fleet¡¯ is answered with two arms up, ME!


    Dreams falter when I finally encounter Wormface and the team of reaper Emus, all laughing with helmets open in the very last room of tunnel 2. Where the passageway dead ends into a cavernous space large enough for three football fields. I only know of the third because tremorsense can feel the factory¡¯s innards working.


    A fully intact Novan Technomancy of Steel, Primary Foundry. My jaw falls so hard it passes through Syrak¡¯s rarified core.


    ¡°Guys. Wut. How!¡± I blabber, my own faceplate coming up.


    ¡°Oi Boss, good ta see you up and Adams.¡± Calls Emurine, somehow grinning smugly through that immobile beak of his.


    Wormface raises one arm, pointing behind me. Brows furrow, why does he want me to turn around? Seems like an odd request, but of all the marines, he is the most loyal. My lancelot -erm, maybe worm-a-lot- in shit-brown camo armor. So I turn.


    Hundreds of occupied cryotubes line the wall, locked into some kind of conveyer. Nude and hairless humans reside within each pod and I begin to wonder where they originated from, what world Jim or collectors like him abducted these people from. Then I see the tattoos. A cross with ¡®Jesus Cristo¡¯ covering a swarthy man¡¯s chest.


    ¡°They¡¯re from earth. My Earth!¡±


    ¡°Indeed they are boss. Alaea helped us disconnect the factory from AI control. See those two rooms over there, eh, maybe shed is the right word.¡± Says Wormface, pointing to what appears to be a corrugated steel shed. As well as the termination point for the tube conveyer.


    I know nothing about it, and yet, I know exactly what will happen to any human who enters that room, or its mirror on the other side of the tunnel entrance. A lobotomy will be performed with industrial tools, like the cordless drill you keep in the basement closet, then the human will have any extraneous wetware removed. Breasts, testicles, penises, excetera, all will be removed along with any defects. Then underperforming wetware will be replaced with hardware tailored to the individual¡¯s future role. Be it technician, or¡­


    I turn back, facing the rows of empty Juggernauts. So many completed hulls stare back at me, as if I¡¯ve walked into a Footlocker store, except the shoeboxes lining the walls are fully operational Main Battle Tanks waiting for a single pilot. I see stacks upon stacks of weapons against the walls, plasma cannons, laser arrays, and more guns than Tiananmen square during a parade.


    ¡°Holy shit. We have tanks!¡± I blurt, thinking this is exactly how you feel when playing as Tosh at New Folsom after kicking in the doors to cell block B.


    I feel like a million bucks, not 25k credits!


    [+50 mechanized vehicles]


    >Terran Thena: Ladies, are you seeing this shit! We have like, fifty tanks ready to go!


    >Executrix Alaea: Too bad all those humans in tubs can¡¯t pilot them.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hehehe


    >Matriarch Hygieia: already tossed the project to zazathur


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hopefully these juggernauts wont be pink OR fluffy


    My gag reflex triggers immediately at the mention of Spiderman. A shudder traversing my spine up then down once more.


    >Terran Thena: Let¡¯s not focus on that. What I want to know, is can we build Thors.


    >Executrix Alaea: Mass produce? Technically yes, practically? Hell Naw. But if we can get enough solarium reactors¡­ I already found the plans for a bigass mech with shields, long range artillery, and a backpack made of ICBMs.


    >Terran Thena: A shielded Thor?! WITH NUKES! Girl, stop. One can only be so aroused.


    >Executrix Alaea: Honestly, it¡¯s more like a 40k titan with how many supplemental guns it has, like imagine your tech suit tentacles scaled up to Walmart sized, and replace tentacles with missile launchers or plasma fusilades tucked into every nook and cranny of this giant while somehow keeping the svelte exterior. Ahem, if you think a hunchbacked goblin with no neck and knuckle dragging arms is sleek.


    >Terran Thena: Biggass shields are everything this girl needs. Is this factory fully automated? Like, can you control everything remotely?


    >Executrix Alaea: Sorta. I can control the factory but I¡¯ll need some of the marines to stick around. Keep the relays operational so my orders don¡¯t get interrupted or interfered with since you¡¯re so far underground. Hygieia thinks she can have a few lobotomized humans stick around for me to work through. It¡¯ll take some doing, but it¡¯s not like I¡¯m going anywhere else, so this is now my pet project.


    >Terran Thena: So, this is our main base¡­


    And it only cost Kerrigan to obtain it.


    ¡°Alright, good job everyone. Lets go help the Tulverians with their half. Then we can start fortifying the bunker entrance too. Drat, we¡¯re spread so thin. Hard to hold all this territory with so few soldiers. Bummer, it¡¯s not like you need armor to hide in a pillbox- OH! We can leave that to the iguanas!¡±


    ¡°If any of the blimey frogs are left.¡± Says Emurine, activating his visor then jetpack, six Ereapers flying down the tunnel.

 Chapter 40 Iguanacide

    Butterflies leap around my stomach, flapping irritating wings at each number. A few days of rest are all we need to max out and create a strike force capable of counterattacking the Azhurai Conglomerate and sweeping the continent. Project Odin will take a few weeks by itself, but we have shielded Juggernauts to tide us over in the meanwhile.


    I¡¯m so wrapped up in daydreaming about the safety of a shielded Odin -no one-off mech with nuclear armaments deserves any lesser name!- that I don¡¯t notice when we pass the bunker¡¯s entrance, or the Tulverian guards currently staffing it. Not even the disconcerting hooting coming from Wormface can rouse me.


    But the pile of dead and wounded Tulverians succeeds where all else has failed. They have no medical supplies, which is when I start paying attention. Not because the wounded, but because Wormface requests a dozen symbiotes be teleported into him, and Hygieia approves the request, sending them directly to my sergeant¡¯s armor. Only for the little parasites to slither out, quickly infesting the most wounded Tulverians.


    It feels wrong to infest your ally, like you¡¯re holding the knife that¡¯s already buried in their back. But only the living can complain. Save them today, remove the symbiotes tomorrow. I think.


    ¡°You can curse me later. Once I''m stomping about in a freaking SHIELDED ODIN!¡± I cry, enjoying how the words echo around my helmet.


    In starcraft 2 the Thor is the single strongest ground unit in the game, but since they are a Terran vehicle you rarely have the opportunity to use them or purchase upgrades that make them more effective. Only the Coop Commander Swann has a version that can be enjoyed, albeit one that has significantly increased health, greater range, an immediate bombardment ability, and multiple autorepair functions.


    Which highlights the achilles heel of the Thor. As the strongest, it is also the most American ground unit, obese from all the enormous guns and high explosive payloads it carries. Like a freshly retired veteran after twelve courses of Taco Bell¡¯s finest bean burritos, something is certain to explode. Good luck guessing what.


    Unless you have shields!


    Booyah!


    I¡¯ll still wear armor while piloting the Odin, cause getting shot hurts every time. But shields are a synergistic key the Thor desperately needed. As Thors generally won fights but took damage, slowly chipping away their health,weakening them over time until they died to anything, shields regenerate, able to blunt damage from one fight and recharging so they could buffer the next fight as well; effectively negating the majority of damage and turning the Thor into an enduring stable of the battlefield. To the point we might have to consider multiple pilots so one can sleep while the other fights.


    Sure you would need to fight strategically, pull back periodically to recover shielding, but that is infinitely easier than returning to base for rebuilding.


    Not only that, but we¡¯re putting it on the first and greatest supersized Thor, the Odin, meaning more power for shielding, potentially creating a scenario where only massed armies could pose a threat to the super heavy walker. That, or starships orbiting the planet.


    ¡°That¡¯s a problem for future me.¡± I mutter, reveling in the victory.


    Infantry can hold ground, our tanks and mechs can take ground, leaving only the skies above. Hygieia¡¯s method of ship construction is starting to show its deficiencies, as we lack infinite biomass. Syrak-9 simply has too many scars, too much pollution from the perpetual conflict.


    We finally have factory tech, but no way to relocate back to Earth. As our buildings are incapable of lifting off and flying home. What we need is a biopool back home, somewhere safe, with tons of biomass.


    Of all the Nat Geo documentaries running through my brain only the rainforests of South America seem to have the potential for shipbuilding on an industrial scale. If we could somehow land Hygieia, then in theory, we could warp biomass back to Syrak on a scale grand enough to Swarm across the planet, claiming it for good since we¡¯ll have to fight off the thousand ships in orbit, one at a time.


    Not an ideal location for defending against intergalactic raiders. Although, neither is the Amazon rainforest, especially when we know the Technomancy battlespheres are nuclearly armed and willing to deploy them. My next thought is for a starport in the asteroid belt. Far more accessible by ship, and carries the added bonus of providing the required materials for real shipbuilding. With the not insignificant upside of avoiding fallout if a thousand nuclear warheads are used to obliterate it.


    I¡¯m so lost in thought I lose track of where we are. Feet carrying me into the line of fire.


    A hand catches my shoulder, yanking me back, scooping me into the arms of Spiderman. I shudder, then cower as five railguns crack, vapor trails blinking through where I had stood only seconds earlier.


    Six reapers boost through the air, each taking a different height -some low, some high- to hose down this particular tunnel with plasma pistols. Railguns crack in their distinctive way, light armor, light body, and lighter guns all means these reapers are something targeting computers have never seen before. All missing the slightly too quick Emus by a hair. A lucky twist that will only happen once.


    Scanner pings erupt through the tunnel, a hundred technicians, soldiers, and myself trying to understand.


    Stealth isn¡¯t an option here, so for the first time I leverage the full electronic suite of my armor. Constant sensor pings create a three dimensional overlay with a hundred times the resolution of tremorsense. Painting a picture of burning flesh through a monochromatic display.


    Three armored grav sleds hover in distant alcoves, bristling with a hedgehog of medium railguns with a gentle sprinkling of high explosive launchers. At least fifty Novan¡¯s in various roles, some without armor. Like we¡¯ve interrupted a dozen scientists; and three medivacs worth of marines and marauders just rolled up to defend them.


    Scientists and Starcraft mingle, reminding me of the hybrid experiments on Castanar. Which in turn reminds me of the Kerrigan clones currently imprisoned in acid and-


    >Terran Thena: Hey, didn¡¯t one of you have access to nerve gas grenades.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: nervous grenades


    >Matriarch Hygieia: yeah


    >Terran Thena: Can I get one of those? Preferably one that doesn¡¯t affect Tulverians.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: eh iguanas are weird


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: give me five


    You want five minutes? IN THE MIDDLE OF A FIREFIGHT!


    It''s enough to make me scream.


    A Tulverian jabs his head out of a supply room, cracking off a shot with his pulse rifle. Too slow. His shot might have been good but six railguns target, adjust aim, and fire, piercing the shroud of plasma and fragmenting his shot before carrying on into the unluckly iguana. One enters his pulse rifle, bouncing up the collection tube until it punches through the chamber and into the magazine where hardened penetrator gives the compressed energy an unregulated output. In short, the iguana becomes a blue volcano for a split second, melting a fifteen foot radius of steel, dirt, mud, and reinforcement into char. So bright it confounds our sensors.


    ¡°No sensors¡­ Spiderman! Can you get an angle? Help even the odds?¡± I ask.


    He passes me to Wormface, who thankfully sets me down, guiding my unarmored self clear of danger. Far away from the ninety degree angle of these intersecting tunnels.


    Spiderman skitters across the floor, claiming mud like a sniper claims ghillie with a golden beam of light. Like I once had, he¡¯s gone full auto, emptying the thrice enlarged magazine in a single burst. Carving through the central grav sled. Green shields flare then pop as the overwhelming torrent of firepower slashes through armor, humans, and shields alike. He¡¯s rolling behind me a second later, pulling me back a few paces as the other two grav sleds pelt the tunnel with every munition they have. Reapers scatter a second before twelve missiles land, doubling the width of the tunnel¡¯s entrance with explosive filets.


    Our world becomes a cacophony of fire and chaos, we scatter, roll, and duck. Several Tulverians vanish, blinking out of existence entirely. Others fall prone or into otherwise compromised positions. Then for several moments nothing moves, each side taking stock.


    This would have been the perfect moment for a cloaked ghost. One who could sneak behind the grav sleds and destroy them without being detected. Like Nova¡¯s supercloak from COOP, she could stroll through the wreckage and drop a demolition charge exactly where it would do maximum damage. I send the idea to Alaea and Hygieia, only to have a mental image of cloaked Spiderman lighting sticks of dynamite.


    >Terran Thena: Well¡­ That¡¯s one way of hiding him¡­ Not sure if invisible spiders is a relief or the worst kind of crawler.


    I¡¯m about to press my design harder when I see General Splendeur exit another 90 degree intersection farther up the tunnel. A cadre of large Tulverians accompanying him. Though only Splendeur sits atop a grav sled, with his dark scaled compatriot as pilot.


    ¡°I need armor, walking around in clothes makes me feel naked.¡± I say to Wormface, taking a moment to duck into a nearby supply closet where I can warp in armor without revealing my hand.


    I¡¯m not entirely sure why Alaea¡¯s interference needs to be concealed, but I trust my-selves.


    One peek at my sensors indicate no activity in two of the three tunnels on this side, meaning we are nearly finished. We¡¯ve almost won.


    Six Tulverian warriors are dragged past, scales scraping against the epoxy floors. Pulsers are yanked from their cooling hands, grenades and ammunition divided amongst the survivors. How have they survived this long? I wonder, seeing what a railgun does to their exposed hides. Flagellation is prettier.


    Darkscale hoots orders at the others, rallying six different breeds of iguana, some large and heavily armored, others more newt-onian thin and almost iridescent with slime, while others still are covered in red scales, as if their essence is burning toxins.


    ¡°Ahh¡­¡± I murmur, realizing they are a race that favors combined arms.


    Armored and shielded battlesuits are meant to act as their eyes and ears. While the infantry are aquatic fodder. Great for general purpose combat on most worlds, but on Syrak they leave more than a little to be desired. They¡¯re fighting with both arms tied behind their back and tails cut off. Like fighting with only lings. I love a zerg rush as much as Scarlet but the enemy knows how to build a wall, and came with rows of siege tanks. Fighting like this is asinine. Only possible due to their equally absurd plasma rifles.


    >Terran Thena: Uhm¡­ Tulverians aren¡¯t great at fighting.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: duh


    >Matriarch Hygieia: reclaim their biomass and take those rifles


    A frown crosses my face. She is right in every possible sense of the term. With the assistance of targeting computers any of my marines -even handicapped by a technician suit that replaced sensors and targeting hardware for tentacles and equipment manual holograms- can out shoot a dozen Tulverians. Those rifles would be better used by me. As would the biomass.


    ¡°General, get your men out of there or under cover!¡± I shout across to the approaching general.


    Splendeur might be overconfidently rotund, but a slow wit he is not. Two hoots roll from his mouth, with each iguana issuing a piercing chirp in response. Already bulbous eyes go wide at the sound, registering something is wrong.


    Then the general does the last thing I expect. A full on, ribbit. Identical in every way to your average bullfrog¡¯s mating call.


    The quips that come to mind seem endless, but I bite my tongue and pray the suit¡¯s faceshield hides my chagrin. But if General Bologna is trying to whistle at me I might just blow off more than his tail.


    Tulverians go silent for a moment, cooking a maneuver I should have considered earlier. Steel tickles against aluminium bodies as grenade pins are pulled then lobbed down epoxy tunneling. A few railguns fire, blasting the canisters out of the air and forcefully scattering the contents of chaff grenades. Only serving to spread the cloud prematurely.


    Smoke billows through the tunnel, metallic particulates causing sensor pings to reflect in destructive harmonic convergence, effectively negating our systems. Through the cloud two score and seven iguanas escape the tunnel, falling back to a checkpoint near the wounded.


    ¡°Zat iz all of zem.¡± Calls Splendeur.


    His stupid accent has never been so sweet. I warp in one of Hygieia¡¯s nervous grenades, apparently something Zazathur carries around with him at all times and carefully heft it. My suit logs the weight of my projectile, providing recommended angels and required headroom to ¡®fire¡¯ the ¡®grenade¡¯ and gives me a firing solution to drop it right on top of the Novans.


    Distant machinery starts up, growing louder like an approaching V8 musclecar. Reminiscent of a Juggernaut.


    ¡°RUN! CLEAR THE TUNNEL!¡± I shout, using the tentacles to form a sort of elongated baseball glove, something the suit calls a ¡®chistera extension¡¯.


    I slam approve cause it nets me an extra twenty meters. Then let the suit take over, winding up and throwing the grenade near two hundred miles an hour, perfectly matching the firing solution. Then -promptly- fuck right off to the entrance, taking all my men with me.


    Splendeur has already laid a trap with twenty iguanas, not enough to defeat a shielded Juggernaut in one volley, but he has no more reptiles to spare. Engines roar through the smoke, snorting clouds as it thunders closer.


    Without warning, railguns crack, rockets explode, shaking the walls so violently I begin to fear a collapse and the engine belches black smoke, swirling the grey smoke like two flavors of ice cream.


    Whatever it is, collides with the smokescreen, sucking in the sharp metallic cloud and spluttering. Any and all mufflers it was equipped with, immediately shits the bed and the roar becomes a screaming jet engine, sending its own reverberations our way.


    A series of rockets explode, suddenly cutting off the engine¡¯s whine. For several moments we wait, listening intently with far too many sensor pings. Nothing moves.


    >Terran Thena: Hey, uhm¡­ What does a nervous grenade actually do? And what¡¯s the point of our suits if they don¡¯t seal against biological warfare?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Zazathur would be complete shit if he couldn¡¯t engineer a nervegas to kill weakass humans through a suit


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you are not even wearing combat suits


    >Terran Thena: uhm¡­ I¡¯m in the same tunnel.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: guess that is one way to turn the iguanas into biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: good job


    >Matriarch Hygieia: did not think you had it in you


    >Matriarch Hygieia: oh yeah¡­ you should run


    >Matriarch Hygieia: LIKE RIGHT THE HELL NOW

 Chapter 41 Nervous Nelly

    I run, fleeing past the bunker¡¯s entrance to our previously captured side in a frantic flight to escape nerve gas, a compound so volatile that if one were to fill a soda can with the most well known, ie Sarin Gas, then it would possess enough fatal doses for three and a half thousand people.


    Meanwhile that nervous nelly was closer to a watermelon. Almost a gallon of fluid, roughly nine times more volume than a soda can.


    ¡°Get everyone back! Evacuate!¡± I order, scrambling out of the bunker and into open trenches.


    Only to find we¡¯ve left the wounded Tulverians behind. Our future watchdogs, the bulk of our allied fighting force. Without them I¡¯ll be stuck on guard duty until I fill every armor and every waiting Juggernaut.


    >Terran Thena: Will Emurine be able to survive the nerve gas?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: uhm¡­ yes and no


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Collective organisms have a higher resistance to it but if they¡¯re trying rawdog nerve gas they¡¯re gonna melt


    For one brief instant I contemplate what she means by melt, then stop. Hygieia is the least human of us, if she says melt, she means something awful and quite explicit.


    ¡°Good enough.¡± I mutter, activating my tight beams, ¡°Emurine, evacuate the wounded, start with anyone who can hold a rifle.¡±


    ¡°Alfway done, ya bloody legend!¡± Emurine calls.


    Jetpacks blur through the shadows, moving our watch-dogs, correction, watch-lizards, to the foundry tunnel, keeping them within the bunker. I¡¯m about to snap at them when Worm sends a mental image of the bunker, including areas that will be poised by the gas and areas that will be unaffected. He¡¯s already done the work and issued orders, just as a good Sergeant ought to.


    ¡°Oh, uhm, thanks.¡± I respond, jogging back into the bunker to the position he labeled as ¡®Athena¡¯s command closet¡¯. The post is an empty supply room, with spare furniture and an eclectic assortment of supplies, half armory half cafeteria, with places for armored and unarmored personnel to sit.


    Splendeur and three iguanas are already tearing into supplies, fangs chewing through tin cans to get at various meat pates and the occasional shortbread loaf. Fulfilling our half of the bargain. Technomancy rations aren¡¯t great, especially for saurian creatures, but they¡¯ll keep the Tulverians alive for now. Still, they¡¯re down to roughly forty fighters and almost that number in wounded.


    Our symbiotes got a number back on their feet and I see Wormface call in more of the symbiotes before returning to my side. I grab him by the collar and drag him into the darkness of an empty supply closet, where only he can pick up my tight beam.


    ¡°Hey! Who the hell gave you permission to infest our allies? What do you think will happen if Splendeur finds out what you just did? He¡¯ll shoot me first and you second!


    ¡°Sorry sir. If he called me on it, I would have posed as an infiltrator and had Spiderman shoot me in the head until a human would be dead. Then he could claim not to have known what I was doing and act equally disgusted, maybe provide the medical scanner to the Tulverians if further evidence was required.¡± Wormface answers.


    I blink. The idea is so stupid it might just have worked.


    ¡°You beautiful buffoon. Look- ah. Just get my permission before infesting anyone. That is a risk only I have the right to accept.¡±


    ¡°Yessir. May I have permission to infest any on the verge of death?¡±


    I step back, tapping my foot in consideration. Maybe it was my dozen stepsiblings, or Whorely, but part of me doubts Wormface. He has never failed or given any hint of disloyalty, yet I can¡¯t shake the feeling that he is loyal to Hygieia first, Collective second, and me third.


    >Terran Thena: Did you put wormface up to infesting the lizards


    >Matriarch Hygieia: hmmmmm not directly


    >Matriarch Hygieia: his orders are to collect all possible biomass and infest everything he can get away with


    >Terran Thena: You aren¡¯t the one who gets fragged if he gets caught Hygieia.


    I can feel her eyes roll.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: there


    >Matriarch Hygieia: orders amended


    >Terran Thena: This isn¡¯t a joke! If he gets caught I get shot! How would you like to be cut in half? Or mind controlled and locked away in stasis by your other half?!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: FINE i get it


    >Executrix Alaea: We¡¯ll bring Kerrigan back Athena. I¡¯m with you. We¡¯re all with you. This was just a slip up. We all want to go home and Hygieia got a bit too eager. Like you and shielded Thors. Kerrigan is perfectly safe and the stasis pod has done full brain scans on her, down to the individual electrons running through her neurons. Which also showed me what Red injected her with.


    I jerk to attention, accidentally smacking Wormface.


    >Terran Thena: Can you fix her?


    >Executrix Alaea: That¡¯s complicated¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: I can turn her back into the cat-scorpion she¡¯s supposed to be, or I can make her more humanoid. Like Trinity. The sort of flashtraining Red used isn¡¯t permanent either, he needed a few dozen more sessions. I just don¡¯t know how to undo it right now. An MRI brainscan is one thing, neurosurgery is another, I¡¯m not confident enough to risk it. Not when she¡¯ll recover naturally. Although¡­ If you can capture a Technocracy AI that would greatly increase my ability.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    >Terran Thena: Sure, let me just capture the planetary ruler, and all his subprocessors which are scattered across their core worlds. The most heavily fortified and industrialized worlds of an alien civilization. No way can I get one of those, and that assumes we find the AI in charge of processing data from Red¡¯s lab. Which is a needle in a haystack of needles except each needle has about a million thermoneuclear warheads.


    >Executrix Alaea: Considering that they build nukes from fusion waste products, add a couple zeroes. They stockpile them absurdly deep, but yeah I get your point about it being difficult to capture a core world AI. Which is why I was talking about the Syrak local AI. Should be wayyyyyy smaller. Less capable, but more focused.


    >Terran Thena: Hmmm¡­ Doubt it. They could have left the AI in orbit or somehow negotiated its landing on the good half of the planet. There are at least three other continents. All fully developed and shielded. No reason to land the most vulnerable AI to the frontline. If it¡¯s even functional, I don''t know about you, but these Novans have performed like dumbasses at every turn, they might only have the most minimal support AI instead of one of the full blown Industrial machines. Like, ChatGPT-0. There isn¡¯t really enough here to justify sending all the hardware. Memory banks alone for a sentient AI would be¡­ Larger than this entire bunker?


    >Executrix Alaea: Guess you¡¯re right.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: YAWN


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Zazathur says he made the cat immune to nervous grenades


    >Matriarch Hygieia: send in the pussy patrol


    >Terran Athena: Always knew cats were overconfident.


    I know the other parts of me laugh, but that only deepens my annoyance. Hygieia went behind my back to achieve her own wants while putting ME in danger. That¡¯s not something I would ever do. Unless¡­ Unless I considered the other bodies as nothing more than Starcraft units, something to be bought by the platoon, ordered to fight and kill, before being deliberately sent to die in the hope of building something more. Trading ¡®dead supply¡¯ for battlecruisers. In general using tools to achieve any end.


    Inhale, then exhale. Nothing can be done about Hygieia¡¯s inhumanity right now, not over a chat interface. So I sit down, trying to summon the lightning cat I¡¯ve forgotten about.


    Our minds touch, and I receive a strange offer from it. The option to see through its eyes and hear what it hears. To meld our senses together as we hunt. Whether my curiosity or hubris got the better of me, I¡¯lll never know. Either way I¡¯m out of my body in a second, prowling through the bunker with strides so great nothing can compare.


    Crystalline claws find purchase in the epoxy floors or the steel walls, traction I¡¯ve earned. Though it takes time to wall walk down the bunker and past the Novan defenders. Mainly due to the stealth, skin cells are constantly shifting colors to accommodate the terrain behind and around me.


    Still we stalk. Silently padding forward. Eyes see in three spectrums, infrared, visible and ultra violet shifting between the three by opening or closing a variable number of eyes. Not that I think about oscillations consciously. To me, the vision is unified, part of a whole, and gloriously clear.


    Smoke fills our mouth, metal particulates cutting on the way down. We are built for this and drop a mucosal filtercros our esophagus, trapping the worst with phlegm for later disposal. Some will be coughed up like a furball, other molecules will find integration with our crystalline fur, serving to armor us. Pain is suppressed under satisfaction, we are fulfilling our purpose for being, a dopamine spike that spreads to both our minds. Slowly advancing through the tunnel to maintain stealth.


    Why we bother is a mystery. I can already see the first grav sled. All occupants are dead, eyes gone and mouths dripping a red froth, as if lungs have liquified and ejected in a gasp. My human body shudders, nerve gas is no joke, I see why this shit was considered on par with nuclear weapons back on Earth.


    The predator doesn¡¯t even blink. Just keeps on breathing, rapidly purrrifying the air like a cat shaped filtration vacuum. I can feel our fur growing as we walk and I¡¯m forced to wonder why we don¡¯t just build a couple hundred of these badass kittens for the next bunker. Uncle Swann would be so proud of them.


    We pause, looking down on a fallen soldier whose black armor and shielding is still intact, but the way he¡¯s hanging off the grav sled with his head below his chest tells us everything. We climb atop him our slow steps passing right through -turns out Technomancy shielding has a speed threshold for activation- that¡¯ll be great information for future shenanigans.


    >Terran Thena: I need a rocket launched bomb that can hit a shield and then slow down enough to fall through it. Kinda like a slow thrust of a crysknife.


    >Executrix Alaea: Nerd


    >Terran Thena: the slow blade pierces the shield. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN


    >Executrix Alaea: Easy. Takes more cycles on the nanofactories than I''d like but we can work a few in. Techno-nerds already figured out some designs with reverse thrusters that trigger near shields, something about proximal polarity, idc.


    I¡¯m already planning how to use those when my fingers tear through armor; treating reinforced, multilayed, ceramic plates, and anti slashing layers similar to kevlar all fall away like a scratching posts¡¯s ablative cardboard. In seconds we¡¯re through the plate and suddenly I understand how this particular creature killed six earlier guards with minimal help from Helen the coward.


    ¡°Cmon, move on.¡± I order, still wishing to move cooperatively rather than taking total control.


    Somehow we both understand I can hijack this body, but for now sharing senses is disorienting enough, almost like being a carsick passenger. I can see the world passing around me but cannot direct it.


    An hour later and the Predator reports no nerve gas remaining (partially due to a very short half life) nor any bodies unchecked. We¡¯ve searched every supply room, alcove, and the barracks in this tunnel. Human supplies get sandwiched between food stuffs and waste disposal rooms. Because of course the Technocracy considers humans to be equipment.


    There is only one room we cannot access. Entrance blocked by a reinforced vault door with deliberate accommodations to be as difficult as possible for anyone attempting a forceful breach. Positioned behind a long narrow tunnel with an especially low ceiling I understand it''s probably a deadfall trap where an explosion is guaranteed to cave in the tunnel for a solid quarter mile.


    Doubtlessly, that is our AI core room, but short of driving the super-laser-tank over here and melting our way through that door, I have no answers. We can only benefit from a functioning, unburied AI. Still, it makes me smile when I see an Ereaper parking the superlaser tank in front of the vault door, sending a message unfettered by vaguery.


    ¡®Behave, or else.¡¯


    We haven¡¯t the time to waste cracking vaults. So we divvy up the tunnels and let the Tulverians take the first two watches while we recover. Twelve hours from now we¡¯ll more than double in fighting strength and I need sleep. Unaugmented humans aren¡¯t meant to be inside Technomancer armor at all, let alone days at a time. But this facility has decontamination showers, a real hot water shower that I haven¡¯t enjoyed in weeks. To say I''m ripe is a disgusting understatement and I spend a criminally long time abusing the decontamination shower¡¯s purpose. With my new cat to stand watch at the door and keep all iguanas or curious emus from peeking.


    If only the Novans used real beds and not metallic cubicles that are temperature regulated. For an advanced ¡®Technocracy¡¯ I find all their tech to be pretty basic shit. Like really, is it too much to ask for a blanket? Or an Ipad? Or a damn pillow that isn¡¯t the skull of my enemies?! Why is everything neural jacks and replacing eyeballs?


    ¡°Whatever.¡± I mutter, settling for a freshly reincarnated pillow in the form of Ling1.


    After a quick scrub of course, Hygieia might have cooties.

 Chapter 42 How To Bathe Your Iguana

    I awake abruptly, brought into consciousness by the sound of pulser fire. Slow and methodical, as if two soldiers are repeatedly firing at the same target.


    ¡°Target practice?¡± I wonder aloud, blearily reaching for my old Singularity uniform and finding an identical replacement instead.


    Someone entered my room last night. Well, someone besides the eight spinolings who lay in pairs around the room, squished together like conjoined twins. Vertical pupils following my every move. I swallow, heart racing at the plethora of puppies. Uncertain if I¡¯m food or mom. Until Ling1 licks my face, reminding me how far we¡¯ve come.


    ¡°Oh, whose a good boy, you are!¡± I say, giving him belly rubs.


    We¡¯ve come a long way from when I first warped these puppies into life, ready to blast them at a second¡¯s notice, a feeling that returns in front of their hungry stares.


    My tech suit was cleaned and polished during my sleep, practically shining in the dark. Just how long was I out?


    I start slipping into my spandex-like anti-rad layer when I realize both fingernails and toenails are no longer clear, but a lustrous black, smooth and shiny like a synthetic diamond. Or chitin. My complexion is fair, and has only grown paler under the protection of armor, giving me a goth chick vibe I am in no way a fan of. Dark lipstick and dyed black hair just isn¡¯t for me, especially cause my eyebrows are brown and would look funky unless I dyed them as well.


    >Terran Thena: Uhm.. If someone ran a bioscan on me, would I read as human?


    >Executrix Alaea: About time you woke up. Uh, depends on the scanner, if it was a quick scan or if they logged every molecule, or if they were capable of detecting my nanites. You¡¯d show up as human or humanoid on most scans, a few would probably flag you as a Collective engineered bioform.


    Her words hang in my mind. Collective Engineered Bioform.


    Black fingernails run over my ribs seeking the bullet hole that once gave me a heart attack. Smooth skin, unblemished by scars only makes me shiver more. I¡¯ve become something no other human being has. A hybrid of sorts.


    My hand extends, about to test my newfound telekinesis when more pulser fire echoes down the hallway. I don¡¯t have time for mental push ups and hastily stuff myself into uniform, scowling as regrowing leg hairs complicate things.


    My new fingers tap open the polished tech suit, only for an error to appear on Its internal HUD, visible through an unpolarized faceshield. In big bold red letters.


    ¡°CHECK YOUR WARP HUD ATHENA¡±


    Out of curiosity I comply, finding a new combat suit waiting in inventory for me, labeled ¡®Don¡¯t get shot TriThenar Shielded Edition¡¯ with another note in big bold red letters saying ¡°PICK THIS ONE ATHENA!¡±


    ¡°Goofballs.¡± I laugh, warping in the new power armor.


    Unlike my earlier models this one was fully customized, based off the combat suits Red¡¯s elite guard were wearing, specifically the sergeant¡¯s armor which carries a shield generator. Explaining why some combat armors were shielded and others were not.


    ¡°I¡¯m a little higher than a sergeant.¡± I say, exploring the suit.


    There are four bundles of tentacles, one in each arm and leg from my old technician suit but the armor is double layered and reinforced, meaning this suit probably cannibalized parts from six others. Then there is the reactor core. Somehow Alaea crammed five reactors into this slick bitch, enough to power three independent shields, all with different recharge times as they each pull from a different reactor, the first shield was the weakest intentionally designed to break first so it could begin recharging and allowing the second layer to take damage in the meantime. Best of all is a display in the top right of my Suit¡¯s hud, a wireframe outline of my armor accompanied by shielding and health readouts, like a four health bar Hero-marine.


    10 / 10 Outer Shield (+1 per second)


    50 / 50 Second Shield (+0.5 per second)


    100 / 100 Final Shield (stable*)


    150 / 150 Health


    Regen rates for the outer shield is a constant 1 per second, while the second shield is half that, and the final shield is an entirely different model, one that takes hours to fully charge but is highly stabilized and will not decay if power is removed, so power can be shifted to other suit functions. Like charging my new weapons.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get shot is right!¡±


    >Terran Thena: Thanks for the armor! It¡¯s clever.


    >Executrix Alaea: You¡¯re welcome, muhwa!


    Onomatopoeia always seems weird, but I can picture her blowing me a kiss. An uncanny mental image considering I see her as myself, like making a kissy face after talking to yourself in the mirror. I shrug off, moving to the weaponry. My pulse rifle has been shortened into a pulse carbine with multiple fire settings, old classics like semi auto and full auto are there, but three burst options have been added, each designed to defeat variable levels of armor or shielding without dumping the entire magazine and getting stuck watching my battery charge.


    ¡°Hawt damn. This is the best christmas present a girl could have.¡±


    But the new toys don¡¯t end there. I¡¯ve been given a proper railgun that slots into a selfsealing scabbard between my reactors where it can be concealed and protected, while maintaining a charge.


    The cherry on top is a sleek plasma pistol, long and thin, slotted into my extra thick leg armor and large enough for my power armor to grasp it, while also possessing an odd custom grip carved into the handle. Based off it¡¯s position I can immediately guess what it¡¯s for, and awkwardly open the armor to grasp the plasma pistol in one human hand.


    Ah, feels good. Now I¡¯m armed in and out of the suit. With sustained firepower, burst firepower, and ¡®oh shit¡¯ firepower. All before I see the launcher icon. Two anti tank missile icons seem to wink at me, perfect armaments for yesterday¡¯s battles. Both missiles are tucked away in armored silos, keeping the shoulder mounted launcher free to select from missiles and a magazine of twenty Monster-can sized grenades of various flavors from High Explosive to Incendiary to smoke to mustard gas all sitting ready to be fired.


    The mustard gas option confuses me. That would have killed all the Tulverians, so why hadn¡¯t the Novan¡¯s deployed them?


    >Terran Thena: There are chemical warfare grenades?


    >Executrix Alaea: Specially made, only Red¡¯s elite guards had them.


    >Terran Thena: I got lucky again didn¡¯t I?


    >Executrix Alaea: Not really. All told we didn¡¯t find many combat suits and the gas grenades seem out of style. Leftovers from a previously conquered faction. There are a lot of odds and ends like that. All the tech suits are actually cobbled together from six different humanoid factions and made with resources mined on three hundred individual worlds. Logistical hell. But the AI is cooperating. Or at least he¡¯ll cough up manifests and is not attempting to hinder Factory production.


    >Terran Thena: Focus, what happens if I fire a gas grenade?


    >Executrix Alaea: Probably nothing. I¡¯m not sure they work. Well, let me clarify, they are fully functional mechanically and will survive an EMP, but Azurhai fight with robotic sculptures, Tulverians aren¡¯t biologically susceptible, and Singularity gas masks actually work. With all the radiation and poison on the world already no one is going to succumb to a gas they don¡¯t breathe. Maybe if you get inside a bunker and pop smoke in their air conditioning unit¡­


    Niche utility is very likely something I¡¯ve wished for in the past, but this is ridiculous!


    ¡°Great, I have four universally accepted warcrimes sitting inches behind my head and they aren¡¯t even effectively evil! Ugh, is this how Mengsk feels after missing with a nuke?¡±


    Armored up, I exit the supply room, finding three lings on one side and a single ling standing about twenty feet to the opposite. Subtle distortions in my view clue me into the predator hiding there, and I can do nothing but laugh at how he¡¯s using the ling as a sort of traffic cone.


    ¡®Ha, Stealth hunter, you did great, time for a real name.¡¯ I say via our hive mind, immediately bombarded with suggestions.


    ¡®Prowler kitty.¡¯ Spiderman.


    ¡®Fluffy.¡¯ Wormface.


    ¡®Death from Below.¡¯ Emurine.


    ¡®Buttlicker.¡¯ Barker.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ I should have seen those coming a mile away.¡± I mutter to no one.


    Invisible beasts are somewhat rare in Mythology, probably because it is hard to imagine a null value, like, can you mentally picture invisible?


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    No, of course not!


    So my natural preference to look at myths for names like I did with Spiderman and Helen comes up dry at first. The only thing I recall being invisible in myths has to do with the Helmet of Hades, or the modern interpretation of it as Harry Potter¡¯s silly shawl, an item that granted the user invisibility, kinda a long fall from Zeus¡¯ lightning bolts or Poseidon¡¯s trident.


    ¡°Hades, the fluffy death.¡± I say, laughing as more shots echo.


    This time the cause is evident by a gaggle of Tulverians who seem to be shooting into the floor and rolling around in blasted dirt. Probably some iguana ritual for their dead. Or just lunch, either way it''s not for me. So I beat feet, double timing it past the Tulverians, nearly making my way past when General Splendeur notices the procession of lings trailing behind me, like a row of spikey ducklings. Our eyes meet, a twinkle in his bulbs despite the fresh hole in his throatsack. Must have been shot yesterday.


    ¡°Ah, just the commander I wanted to see! Your men seem to be under the impression they are in total command of this bunker and it was not a joint operation between allies on equal footing.¡± Says Splendeur, all hints of his former accent gone.


    The change is so stark my feet lock up. How could an accent just disappear? Was it some kind of translation error, or did he just realize talking like a frog was weird for amphibians? A bit of drool leaks out of his throatsac¡¯s gunshot wound and I¡¯m forced to consider the answer might be a bullet through the tongue. He does have multiple, and judging by the pink fleshy mass at least one tongue is plugging the gunshot.


    Great, his version of a lisp is talking like an American. Goddamn aliens. I think.


    ¡°Ah, uhm. Walk with me General, I¡¯m just about to make my rounds. We still haven¡¯t gotten past those two blast doors or the lab.¡± I say, marching right on by and really hoping I don¡¯t have to deal with him.


    The sound of webbed feet slapping against epoxy floors tear my wish to tatters.


    ¡°That tis exactly what I wish to discuss with ze! Our Soldiers should split the watches, and have equal access to the facilities, not be shunted into a closet and forced to stand guard day and night!¡±


    I scroll through my roster, noticing two Plasma Juggernauts are now listed, complete with fusion reactors, shielding, and collective drivers instead of surgically added humans. Ah, small victories like that make this siege worth the price, but I need to catch up on what Hygieia¡¯s been cooking.


    As soon as I chase off this frog. I wonder if Hades would eat him, my old cat Whiskers always seemed to enjoy eating frogs. A rumbling from an empty spot in the congo lings warns that Hades would be more than happy to oblige.


    ¡°Ahem!¡± I cough, waving the cat down, ¡°You have more men than I do, so splitting watches evenly would be foolish. Sure my individual soldiers are stronger and better equipped but what are you expecting? We can staff the control rooms and we are the ones who need to refurbish the tanks, and armor because this is a human bunker! We¡¯ll be commandeering their armor and weaponry for days while we sort out repairs and get suited up. I¡¯d love to share power armor with you but it barely fits us, in fact, it would be easier to not bother with modifications and build entirely new designs or equipment that needs no modifications for your men- or uhm, soldiers.¡±


    Splendeur¡¯s throat inflates, and six iguanas cut me off, passive sensors detect movement behind me, and tremorsense shows that they¡¯re creeping up the tunnel, cutting off my retreat. I¡¯m surrounded by thirty or so man eating iguanas, with only a third the number of lings. Plasma rifles vs teeth, claws, and spines. We¡¯d give as good as we got, but I¡¯m the biggest target, and even with triple layered shielding I can¡¯t forget how few plasma rifles it took to bring down those two shielded Juggernauts.


    Although, those Juggernauts weren¡¯t armed with even a single rear-facing autocannon. A very simple design adjustment that might have kept them both alive.


    >Terran Thena: note, make sure Juggernauts have the capacity to deal with massed light infantry, something like a rear facing autocannon. Especially the Plasma Juggernauts, losing hardware like them is like hold-positioning a Thor at the bottom of a cliff while one marine kills it from out of vision. Inexcusably sloppy.


    >Executrix Alaea: I¡¯m generally giving them four minor weapons, always contrary to what the main armament is, energy based main cannons get machine guns, while our autocannon based Juggernauts will get a plasma fusilade or two, one facing backwards, one facing forward, and sometimes one up top or two on the sides for full 360 degree coverage. But uh, we got a shit ton of missiles, like over a hundred thousand, and the AI keeps building them in satellite bunkers, places where nanofactories are still functioning. So each Juggernaut is getting at least one launcher, and they¡¯re all equipped with smoke grenades already so they have a little flexibility there. I¡¯m planning to split them up, divide them into offensive squads of two or platoons of twelve, with every other Juggernaut getting enhanced sensors and having at least one in twelve be a command-naut. Then we can mix four long range missile-nauts in with plasma-nauts and also have up to date scans of terrain and movements. Ooooohhhh. We have plasma repeaters¡­ Those are perfect for anti infantry duty! High volume of fire, low armor penetration, and runs off a self contained reactor with the option to pull from the main reactor! Which frees up some weight for the main guns or launchers to carry more shots¨C


    Alaea continues talking to herselves, it¡¯s irritating enough I wish for a mute button and the text vanishes, no longer interrupting my thoughts.


    I¡¯m glad Alaea is working on it, unlike the frogman stepping a bit too close. Mentally I contact all my minions, suggesting I need assistance if Spledeur decides to make things ugly.


    Try it frog boi. I think, loading an incendiary grenade into my launcher. The ka-CHUNK does not go unnoticed.


    ¡°General Yurten, come now We are allies. Tis az you say. We must retrofit our living quarters, they are not fit for mongrels, let alone proud warriors of Tulveria!¡±


    I make a show of turning shoulders to face him head on, then back to his renovations. A few iguanas are still digging, occasionally shooting, probably to break up rocks or dig deeper.


    ¡°No one is stopping your renovations.¡± I say, waving a hand at the supply room.


    ¡°Oh but zey are! One room! For sixty warriors! And our wounded need treatments, you cannot expect us to all share the same baths. This cannot stand! Surely a commander of your preeminence can understand zat.¡±


    I just look at him for a moment. Froggy is literally about to gun me down in a hallway over who gets to use the extra shower?


    Clanking footsteps save me from force feeding Splendeur his rear legs. Four suits approach, visors open to display singularity gasmasks. One wears the armor of an engineer, while another comes up the tunnel limping in a recently patched tech suit, cloaking module visible just behind her head.


    ¡°Ah Boss, I just came to find you after getting back- uh, I mean- just woke up after getting shot, yeah¡­ looks like the bioinjections did their job and corporal says the General has been insistent on certain uh, Tulverian facilities he wants-¡± Helen begins, rambling through excuses.


    Splendeur already knows about our swarm, but keeping the warp engine secret is still a priority. Or, if not secret, then retaining plausible deniability.


    ¡°Wants! We do not want zes facilities, we require zem! Our blood took this bunker, we overthrew ze Novans and deserve a fair split of ze spoils!¡± He calls, loudly enough for several iguanas to start hooting in ascent.


    Five power armors, the lightning predator, and a dozen lings vs a minimum of thirty Tulverians. I¡¯m liking my odds a bit more with each passing second. Which is when I get an insidious idea, and pop my helmet open, taking my gasmask off as well so I can see eye to eye with Splendeur. He¡¯s probably fourteen feet long measured from the tip of his skull crest to the terminus of tail, which ends up positioning him about a foot beneath me.


    ¡°General, come, show me the rooms you want remodeled. Truth be told I¡¯m already remodelling the first tunnel we cleared, in fact, we¡¯ve already cleared out a number of supply rooms so there ought to be plenty of space. Once we get the Juggernauts up and running there will be some space in the foundry and you can custom manufacture anything in the database. But look here, we¡¯re still scrapping Novans off the walls and licking our wounds! Baths can wait!¡±


    Splendeur proved to be quite the diligent listener, nodding and humming at the right moments, right until the ending three words when his mouth drops open, throatsac inflating a bit. As if I just slapped his mom. Wait¡­ Do frog generals even have mothers?


    Weight shifts, Tulverians moving to elevate their guns. Whatever I said wasn''t the right thing. A pity. As the Tulverians could have been useful allies, without them we¡¯ll be stretched thin, scouts and infiltrators will be easy to miss, almost impossible really. Bummer. My pulse carbine flicks to full auto, a borderline imperceptible click that does not go unnoticed by any of the fifty organisms present-


    -Helen pushes her way between Splendeur and I.


    ¡°Hey boss, I think there has been a cultural misunderstanding here. The Tuverians are amphibious so a bath is their version of an infirmary and how they purge free radicals or accumulated radiation. It¡¯s how they moderate mutations as well.¡± Interjects Helen.


    ¡°Bathing to cure cancer? Damn, that¡¯s a hell of a bath.¡± I blurt, curiosity and confusion overcoming my annoyance. ¡°How would that even work? Actually, forget it, just get them however much water they need. Why is this a problem that requires my attention Helen?¡± I snap, motioning for those in front of me to clear a path.


    Infested troopers step aside, iguanas do not. Helen taps the side of her head, closing her suit¡¯s fishbowl helmet. A gesture I copy.


    ¡®What¡¯s up Helen?¡¯


    ¡®They need a whole lot more than just water. Their stupid fucking bath requires twenty biomass to build, besides that, they want ten of the things! Two hundred biomass wasted to save fifty! It¡¯s ridiculous, and Hygieia is absolutely refusing to budge on their requests!¡¯


    Ugh, this feels like we¡¯re back in middle school and someone just hit puberty. A curse of being hormonally passionate and completely unintelligibly impotent in words and experience.


    >Terran Thena: Hygieia, why are you aggravating the lizards? Cmon, how many of their bodies have you uhm, what do you do with them? Actually, I don¡¯t want to know. Would it kill you to keep me from getting shot for a day?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: worm infected fifteen of them


    >Matriarch Hygieia: just blast em in the back


    >Matriarch Hygieia: you already outnumber them


    >Terran Thena: You¡¯re being difficult in the dumbest way possible. Cmon girl. I need manpower, something like a hundred more soldiers just to hold this bunker from the counterattacks that are inevitably going to arrive. Not to mention we still haven¡¯t cleared it yet, there are two vaults we can¡¯t get through. One is an entire tunnel! If Novans are behind those blast doors what do you think will happen if we kill each other?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: ¡­


    >Matriarch Hygieia: fine


    >Matriarch Hygieia: i am not giving them TEN kiddy pools


    >Terran Thena: Start with one, then Helen can figure it out. Ten is preposterous, but I¡¯m fine with three or four.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: add another month to our timeline


    ¡°So snarky.¡± I hiss, wondering if that¡¯s how we naturally respond to difficulties.


    A hundred biomass can¡¯t be a month¡¯s worth of shipbuilding and she knows it.


    Still, any delay to going home makes my spine itch, Earth needs her people back now, not in a month, and every day we delay is another day the alien scouts have to entrench themselves. If we aren¡¯t quick, we could find ourselves leaving the irradiated trenches of Syrak-9 and landing on the irradiated Trenches of Sol-3. My teeth snap shut, killing that thought.


    My helmet whooshes open.


    ¡°Alright fine, project approved, get these guys a bath. One for now, Helen, build them sequentially, but understand that ten isn¡¯t possible given our current logistics. Shoulda just said it was your medical facilities.¡± I grumble, watching with a smile as Hygieia¡¯s centipede warps into my private room and skitters through the hallway, slithering between lings to begin renovating the ¡®bath¡¯.


    The emotions running across Splendeur¡¯s face are priceless, rage, annoyance, satisfaction, and a gleaming twinkle of hope. One I share. The look of someone who believes they are going to make it home.


    ¡°General, you¡¯re alright. Now move, I got a lab to burn down and a recycler to purge.¡± I say, pushing past everyone on my way to end Kerrigan¡¯s abominable cloning.

 Chapter 43 Ooohhhh Shiny! Wait, Why is it Slimy!

    I never make it to Red¡¯s lab. Earthquakes ripple through the ground, shaking me despite the heavy armor.


    Sable Yurten recognizes this feeling, making our heart freeze. Real guns, the sort of long range mass drivers that only rare fortresses can fuel, begin to thrash our world. The sort of supercannons never seen on Earth for there is no need to shell an octagon of space shuttles month in and month out.


    Lights cut off, not because we¡¯ve been hit but because point defense counterbatteries need every picowatt and spare electron of energy. Notifications scroll down my HUD, reports and authorizations from the base¡¯s automated defenses. Some are simple damage reports, others recognize me as commander and grant authorization befitting a Field Marshal.


    That receives my full attention, as the Novan Artificial Intelligence in command of this base just promoted me. I should be grateful, not suspicious as fuck. How the hell did the AI survive Trinity, my attack, the nuclear detonation, and an EMP? What¡¯s most surprising is the AI flat out reports core status and which vault is protecting it, displaying 100% functional and undamaged.


    After the EMP I¡¯m surprised anything is working, but the life saving point defense weapons are a top priority in base defenses as they are the only weapons directly protecting the AI itself. Logical enough to harden against all possible assaults. Shells land, sending another earthquake through our tunnels.


    ¡°Get a detachment to the base entrance. Those guns are powerful, but if they worked the Technomancy would have been defeated long ago. Once the bombardment ceases, expect a ground invasion.¡± I broadcast on an open com.


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Chimes across private com lines, all neatly rearranged by the AI.


    No voices overlap, none are incoherent, they are all perfectly aligned in a way only total control of our broadcasting systems could implement. It can control our suits.


    Suits that seal and can vent internal atmosphere.


    >Terran Thena: The AI is active and in our suits.


    >Executrix Alaea: Fek. That will take time to excise. Try making nice I guess.


    I want to scream at her, but only because I know she¡¯s right. There isn¡¯t jack shit any of us can do about an AI designed to have total control of our suits. Every sensor, from weight to carbon dioxide to toilet flushers is connected to the base. Our suits have life sign readings, heartbeat, atmospheric, etc, all microscopic bits of information designed to educate the glorified computer so it can effectively triage wounded soldiers or deliver medical supplies and ammunition. It probably knows the number of molecules in your average fart and has confirmed that number thousands of times.


    >Terran Thena: Can you give me an emergency button to warp the suit out? Let¡¯s call it laundry day.


    >Executrix Alaea: Nerd. lol. Here.


    The button appears on my Warp HUD, and I quickly rearrange things there. It¡¯s simpler than I could ever imagine, like using telekinesis to move zero-mass blocks around.


    Our friendly neighborhood AI keeps track of my eye movements and adjusts the alerts in accordance, mostly shifting them to the leftmost edge of my vision, like the damaged unit warnings in starcraft, ie when a lone marine lands a shot against a battlecruiser and ¡®ABANDON SHIP!¡¯ echoes despite the marine already being blown apart by the very same battlecruiser.


    For now I am stuck with the AI stalker and work the problem. We are under bombardment, thus the AI decided we are preferable to whatever is coming and decided to grant me command access. Or it knows we¡¯re all chucklefucks who can¡¯t code our way out of a wet bag, posing zero risk of overriding it. Either way, I now have scanners that extend a hundred miles in every direction.


    For a moment my mind fuzzes, taking in the vast sum of information via databurst. Like a fist through both eye sockets. I hit the floor, crawling sideways and curling into a ball. Lings dogpile me, for a protective layer of spinosauri as the war enters my mind.


    Outside our bunker an estimated million Singularity troopers fight against a few hundred thousand Azhurai scouts, each a masterpiece of variable sculpting, often in the form of a predator but there appear to be some hippos, cows, rhinoceri, and other creatures too alien for labels sprinkled throughout.


    Makes sense, I¡¯d get bored of sculpting wolves and lions all day, it would be healthy to sculpt a lovable fatass of a cow every now and again, but whomever carved a hippo out of marble ribbons needs to check in with their shrink. Eh, who am I kidding, I¡¯d end up sculpting a chubby catgirl named meowmeow just for shits and giggles. Probably give her a box full of chicken nuggets that doubled as grenades.


    Hundreds of shattered fortresses act as cover or bunkers for Singularity infantry, the vast majority of which fight unarmored, with no protection other than the condoms in their pockets and rifles in hand. Sensors track them by the squad, except for two individuals. Who are tracked with a thousand sensors each.


    Cold sweat cuts through the pain, terror suppressing the migraine of knowledge.


    Bioweapons.


    One cleaves through constructs with seven swords, sheathing and unseathing faster than I can track, carving stone like one might carve melted butter. Unthinkably terrifying, so powerful. I¡¯m lost in rapture, unable to look away from this bladed berserker, who dashes through enemy fire, like Alarak plowing through hordes of Rak¡¯shir, or a wall of Hellbats holding the line against Meinhoff¡¯s infested. Curtains of fire supplanted by curtains of venting solarium reactors, yellow instead of red, ripped from the beating hearts of hundreds.


    So strong. Part of me wishes such a man would apply that strength in my defense. That would-


    -end the flashtraining my own suit was attempting.


    An error message appears on screen, marking me as some kind of ¡®irregular¡¯ with a long string of binary before and after. Not something my human eyes can read or parse.


    ¡°Ah hell. It can flashtrain us.¡± I say, broadcasting on all coms.


    Except, no warning leaves my suit. Filtered out y the AI¡¯s influence. I swallow, mouth too dry to speak.


    ¡®The AI can flashtrain us within the suits.¡¯ I warn.


    ¡®Yep, he already tried on us, doesn¡¯t work on symbiotes or myself, Emurine thought he was tripping balls, but his bird brain saved him. Barker requested a symbiote to help fight through it.¡¯ Wormface answers, sending a mental picture of the updated battlefield directly into my brain.


    Hive minds really have their upsides. In seconds my headsplittting migraine retreats, along with legions of scouts and the Bladed Berserker, replaced by a uniquely different bioweapon. One far larger, yet walking methodically, only moving at speed to dodge missiles or projectiles, while he shields and empowers the squads around him. He and forty eight unarmored troopers carve through thousand golems, C9 Sentinel rifles somehow equalling Azhurai shielding and overcoming it.


    A bioweapon, fighting with reason. It¡¯s a calculation I¡¯d never truly expected, and seeing it firsthand fascinates me. Just who is this Heavy bioweapon, who fights with the men and women beneath him.


    I swim through the dogpile of lings, giving Ling1 a headscritch before sprinting to Wormface¡¯s command post, his CP at the rearmost entrance to the fortified atrium. With the AI providing an overhead rendering of various defensive options. If this were a castle gatehouse made of mithril and adamantium, it would be less strongly fortified than the first ten feet of blast doors. Which are now fully functional and sealed.


    ¡°Boss, glad you¡¯re here, we¡¯re buttoned up tighter than a nun with crossfires set up and thirty separate angles on the blast doors. This won¡¯t be like last time where we needed Kerrigan to beat back the lings. Overmind- No- uhm. A-I-mind? AInd? Gave me gate control. I¡¯ve opened the innermost blast door so we have a way to seal the entrance if the first two doors get blasted.¡± Worm reports.


    Looking around him fills me with satisfaction. Barker leads an entire squad of carbine-toting, sword-wearing knights, Spiderman has six clones scattered across the base, each with a solarium reactored pulser. While Emurine¡¯s squad of six has mushroomed into a dozen Ereapers. Then there are the infested troopers who account for the majority of our numbers. Checking our supply I¡¯m immediately forced to question how long I was out.


    36 / 42 Biomass (Hygieia¡¯s pool of available biomass)


    764 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress


    64 / 144 Mechanized Units


    1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts


    2 Nanofactories


    1 MacroFactory (Foundry) Novan Primary Fabricator


    10 / 100 Project ¡®ODIN¡¯


    I blink at the progress, a stupid grin spreading across my face. My nap turned out like the strangest match of Starcraft where both players had emergency door knocks and neither ¡®PP¡¯ in chat, the cultured request to ¡®Please Pause¡¯ so both players could be on even footing; leaving us with an overabundance of resources and personal.


    All waiting to fight.


    Except for the Odin, that sweet love child of imagination and necessity needs some time in the oven.


    Wormface taps his com link, a power armored soldier¡¯s way of tapping my shoulder. It¡¯s a whole lot easier than trying not to smash each other¡¯s visors, making me wonder why we¡¯ve been so cavalier about suit protocols.


    ¡°Ahem, uhm, the AI has to have a name, just ask it.¡± I say, thinking back through Worm¡¯s report.


    ¡°Yessir.¡± Worm answers, knowing me well enough to pick up on a stalling tactic. ¡°Need some adderall boss?¡±


    ¡°Shut your mouth- uh- Face! Shut your face!¡± I snap, not wanting to understand worm anatomy. ¡°Look, we blast anyone who tries to sneak in, any cloaks, any tunnels have to die. But if the Holy Singularity comes a knocking we need to give them a chance to talk things out.¡±


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Worm pantomimes a nod, ¡°Logical, keeps you from shooting any stepbrothers.¡±


    My recently disolved eyebrows disappear into the peach fuzz of hair.


    ¡°How?¡± I blab, trying not to squirm in my suit.


    The answer is obvious, there are no secrets within a hive mind, all soldiers know me on a deeply intimate level, too intimate. Like knowing exactly how many fillings are in someone else¡¯s mouth. A glut of knowledge better left unstated.


    ¡°Sorry boss, I forget you aren¡¯t used to the shared mind.¡± Worm says, pulling up a feed to the exterior world.


    Beams of green Novan point defense flash like ten thousand polaroid fireflies, cutting missiles in half or detonating middair projectiles. Protecting our base from harm.


    The AI recommends a maneuver, move all available juggernauts to a few dozen outlets, small connections no larger than my palm, where the Juggernauts can provide reactor energy to power the bunker¡¯s shield.


    ¡°Great idea if we had spare tanks!¡± I snap, my helmet coms finally restored.


    At least the AI can admit when it¡¯s wrong, or at least acknowledge shared goals. Neither man, worm, woman, nor machine wish to die here. Buried under tons of irradiated dirt, forgotten and alone.


    ¡°Crap,¡± I say, watching the point defense work. All shots are skewed to one side, and it¡¯s not the Azhurai¡¯s. ¡°Artillery barrages seem to be a Singularity special tactic.¡± I say, trying not to roll my eyes at how ineffective artillery seems to be. My waist tingles, reminding me that the artillery likely accomplished everything it was intended to do. ¡°We¡¯re a small force, pinned down by artillery. Against millions of enemy soldiers.¡±


    If only these weren¡¯t my stepsiblings, if only those singularity troopers out there where Baz-the-azzhole and Whore-the-Ashley, then I¡¯d treat this like the surmountable conquest it was and pull off my kiddy gloves.


    ¡°Novan AI, send a message to the Singularity, tell them Sable Yurten of the 105th training regiment has taken command of this fortress and seeks an honourable return. They will be forgiven and compensated for shelling my landing position.¡±


    Worm cocks his head, the gesture copied by our re-brained troopers. There are a dozen of them in the command post with us, mostly operating remote sensors or managing logistical chores while they wait for power armor to be repaired and returned.


    Intrinsically I know they are piloted by multiple symbiotes, a war crime I¡¯ve become numb too.


    ¡°Don¡¯t cock your heads at me! A month from now we might have a hundred tanks, do you really think a hundred tanks can beat a hundred thousand Azhurai? Or a million troopers?! Cmon! Put the facts together, I don¡¯t want to kill human beings. Allying with the largest human faction is a basic bitch level of assumption. Besides, we¡¯ve ceded the upper world to them, given enough time and soldiers, which they have, we will be crushed by the weight of their carcasses. And that¡¯s if we are lucky! We can all see the tunneling tank on screen! What if hat Bladed Berserker tunnels into our Primary MacroFactory? Or some other awful bioweapon with cloaking shows up? Nothing is stopping them from sending a dozen tunneling tanks into our rear or simply digging down from the surface to reach us.¡±


    ¡°Yessir!¡± Chimes over the com, a hundred voices all answering me with a zeal that says, sure mom, despite tightening their fingers against triggers.


    Maybe that¡¯s for the best. The ¡®Holy Singularity¡¯ only knows me as Sable Yurten, a fresh recruit who got dumped onto this world with nothing and hasn¡¯t been seen for weeks! Worse, my last orders were to kill every alien, not inject yourself with nanites, become half zergy, create a slew of mutant marines and shack up with all the remaining iguanas on this world.


    I am soooooo screwed.


    ¡°They¡¯d hang me at best then call in a few humanoid bioweapons to finish off everyone who follows me.¡± I whisper, checking the Novan¡¯s projections for Singularity forces.


    At least a hundred thousand soldiers. Probably several million, offworld support guaranteed. A single line of text at the end surprises me. Full authorization granted, bleed them in every way possible to ensure the balance of power.


    I¡¯m forced to read the line a second time, full authorization? That means the foundry will be unlocked and all of the Novan¡¯s most advanced technology is available to me¡­ This is like walking into a supply depot looking for crackers and toilet paper only to discover a functioning fusion core instead!


    >Terran Thena: Hey, can you try reconnecting a nanofactory with the central AI? I¡¯m not sure, but I think we just got an upgrade to go toe to toe vs the Singularity¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: No need, we have full control over ten satellite nanofactories- oh I mean satellite like Soviet satellite states, not satellite like space. Sorry, updating now! I got lost in how many options the foundry has. Athena¡­ They have everything. Including things they shouldn¡¯t. Like a sort of Goliath who requires you to teleport inside it and control it with psychic impulses. And some battlesuits that augment the pilot¡¯s psychic abilities.


    >Terran Thena: What¡¯s the big deal with a psy-liath? Sounds awesome.


    >Executrix Alaea: They¡¯ve sold all psychic rights to the Collective. Why develop tech for psychics you cannot own?


    >Terran Thena: Psychic rights? What?


    >Executrix Alaea: It¡¯s complicated. Essentially each race can have a set number of psychic beings under their direct control. That number is set by the nameless. Some species find that too restrictive, and ¡®purchase¡¯ all psychic entities from other species then integrate them into their species or uhm¡­ replace those entities with their own. The Collective is really good at that, technically it¡¯s a bad faith treaty violation but you can just pay a fine and keep the organism, which the collective does all the time. TLDR, Novans are not allowed to have any psychics for the rest of the century but these designs were updated a few minutes ago. The AI redesigned some dimensions to better fit you and Kerrigan¡­ Which would be fully accepting two additional psychics into the Technomancy, and the limits are hard-caps, you don¡¯t get fined a few tons of Solarium for violating the cap, you lose a world.


    We consider what it means, reaching the same conclusion within a second of each other.


    >Executrix Alaea: Rebellion.


    >Terran Thena: Galactic civil war. Against the nameless.


    This is why the Singularity cheated, a last ditch effort to steal solarium before full scale conflict begins. That¡¯s why a dozen starships dialed a new gate the second it activated. Everything clicks into place. Was Earth even a seeded world? Or had some tricksy AI decided they could steal a few billion soldiers for the coming war and abscond any responsibility in the chaos that followed?


    As if reading my mind Alaea speaks.


    >Executrix Alaea: We need a fleet. Actual battlecruisers and orbital defense platforms.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Girls, we need a motherfucking deathstar


    >Terran Thena: A second and third fleet too. What shipbuilding facilities exist on Syrak?


    >Executrix Alaea: On the shielded half of the planet there are some light cruiser production sites, uhm, if we factor in the lore accurate scale of Starcraft units, it''s like a shielded Liberator. Mmmm, actually a little bigger than normal so more like the spec ops version from Nova¡¯s Covert Ops.


    >Terran Thena: Can we set sail and cross the sea?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: our courier can just fly over there


    >Matriarch Hygieia: way easier than making a sailing ship


    >Matriarch Hygieia: wait


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cant the foundry make hovercraft


    >Matriarch Hygieia: things like vulture bikes and hover tanks like a diamondback


    >Terran Thena: You beautiful son of a bitch! COUNT ME IN!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: daughter


    Her correction falls on deaf ears. Here on Syrak-9 only one gender is recognized, and that is ¡®cannon-fodder¡¯.


    I¡¯m already drooling over the best possible diamondback variant. Truth be told the unit was kinda ass in Starcraft¡¯s campaign, so bad it was one of the units that got cut from all competitive modes. Imbalanced to a fault by being mobile but slower than a hellion, expensive since it required a tech lab and lots of gas but too fragile to ever justify usage, only able of shooting ground, and only acceptable levels of dps against the units that already hard countered it like concussive shell marauders, siege tanks, fucking ten zerglings, or a single immortal. Banshees were similarly priced, sometimes identical depending on patch, yet cloaked, were flying death copters, and in general kicked more ass.


    Vultures were similarly problematic, cheap but not cheap enough to compete against marines or -once again hellions- and their only redeeming feature being the ability to lay mines.


    >Terran Thena: Crap, both units suck, do you remember any campaign mods that made them good?


    >Executrix Alaea: Junker mod diamondbacks, if you add missile launchers, a plasma cannon, more reactors, biosteel, and an upgraded main cannon, oh and shields. Can¡¯t forget the shields. Didn¡¯t one mod add the immortal¡¯s hardened shield ability too?


    >Terran Thena: I think so. But like¡­ We don¡¯t have hardened shield generators¡­ How would you even make that? It¡¯s literal space magic. Can you make a game accurate Dback and some variations? We¡¯ll take the Abathur route and have them face off. Kinda sad that diamondbacks sucked so much, great for the one train mission and never again. I¡¯ll give it some thought, come up with a few iterations. Vultures?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: fodder


    >Matriarch Hygieia: remove mines then add second reactor for speed


    >Matriarch Hygieia: lengthen the fuselage so two armored troopers can ride in it and¡­ idk


    >Matriarch Hygieia: add jewish space lasers?


    I laugh so hard a snort echoes across the entire bases¡¯ coms. Which only makes me laugh harder for embarrassment. Tears well. Soon dripping into the confines of my combat armor and pool there. Ah, if only the alloys used in my suit¡¯s construction had some anti fogging mechanism or better yet absorbed the liquid like a self contained stillsuit, but such a thing would require microscopic channels and would operate more like a wetsuit; so disgusting soggy that would be guaranteed to grow moldy after a single use-


    -Moldy.


    Mold is a fungus.


    >Terran Thena: How did Stettman cook up biosteel?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: he smoked wayyyy too much terrazine with Tosh while eating hot mutalisk wings


    >Executrix Alaea: Ya know, sometimes I worry about you two.


    >Terran Thena: GROW VULTURES!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: cmon girl


    >Matriarch Hygieia: collective sucks at flying bioforms


    >Matriarch Hygieia: its the powerplant


    I understand instantly, birds can only fly due to their absurdly light bodies, even a small drone has a larger payload than a Bald Eagle; and the largest flying creatures ever known to man Quetzalcoatlus, could not carry anything more than half its own weight. An impressive sum, but to carry two soldiers in power armor would require a creature with wings larger than whales. Sure there is probably some super efficient farting spacewhale/dirigible we could cook up.


    Or¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: Stuff a fusion reactor and an engine into an organic vulture. That¡¯s so stupid.


    There is a long pause, spanning a few precious moments. All while Singularity troopers -earthlings- fight and die to animated sculptures. Slowly purchasing an avenue to attack us with gallons of blood.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Zazathur confirms it would work


    >Matriarch Hygieia: he already cooked up a single person vulture with two sidecars


    >Matriarch Hygieia: replaced grenade launcher and magazine with reactor and rapid fire particle cannon


    >Matriarch Hygieia: like wtf is this guy


    >Matriarch Hygieia: oh wow


    >Matriarch Hygieia: the diamondback design is interesting


    >Matriarch Hygieia: this¡­ could work¡­


    >Matriarch Hygieia: if you would hurry up and


    >Matriarch Hygieia: MINE MORE MINERALS


    >Matriarch Hygieia: NOT ENOUGH MINERALS


    >Terran Thena: God damnit girl. Some text you can just hear. It¡¯s not right! So how about I¡¯ll fart in your general direction! How is that for some biomass?


    Around us lights flicker back on. Power returning after the bombardment abates and our point defense retracts into hidey holes. One glance at a strategic map tells me everything. Azhurai constructs are pulling back across the continent, ceding ground to the bioweapons. Two individuals who are now heading our way with several thousand troopers at their beck and call. Scores of individual anti tank guns, self propelled mortars, and the occasional squad shielding carriage. Equipment that should have been deployed to save my life.


    Instead it is all coming to end me. To slaughter those the Singularity claimed to protect. This wasn¡¯t my deal with Jim, all head our way, alongside two beings who can only be described as human shaped bioweapons.


    We got lucky with Trinity. If she hadn¡¯t already been three quarters dead I¡¯d be laying in the atrium, sliced into certainly dead -even for a nanite infused zerg- pieces.

 Chapter 44 Old friends

    ¡°Boss, we have incoming. Azhurai are in full retreat and the Singularity has advanced to surround Tulverian central command. Scans indicate the Tulverian shielding array and bombardment circuits are viable. It¡¯ll give them a foothold to hit us directly with capital ship equivalent weapons.¡± Sergeant Wormface says.


    ¡°Someone grab Splendeur and drag his tail up here.¡± I order, waiting for the obvious joke to be made.


    Yet, not a single soldier takes the opportunity to quip about a young maiden needing an ugly toad to make her dreams come true. A stark reminder that I am alone. Hell, I¡¯d take Savannah¡¯s dirty ass over this complete isolation, she may have a habit of going too far too quickly with everyone, but that was better than nothing at all.


    ¡°I can¡¯t think that way, not right now. Not when I need to start negotiations!¡± I hiss. Punching the epoxy wall with a fist. Compacting a cubby around my fist effortlessly, to the point I can no longer feel resistance.


    [Response from the Holy Singularity, Defenders of Mankind]


    -Private Sable Yurten, General Richard Antonio Ziusudra is on approach to assess the validity of your claims.-


    -You are hereby ordered to stand down all forces and open the bunker in preparation to receive him.-


    ¡°Oh holy shit.¡± I gasp. ¡°Did not think they would actually get my message!¡±


    What I really mean, is that I was 100% certain that the bolt brain AI was going to allow us to negotiate! Judging by the sudden silence in the command post, no one else thought differently.


    ¡°Boss, they¡¯re coming for an inspection? What the hell?¡± Worm asks.


    ¡°Was not expecting that¡­¡± Mutters a trooper, receiving nods from two others.


    Their words focus my mind, I am in command and need to act like it, show them this inspection is nothing we need to fear, when inviting a General is the third stupidest invitation we could conceive. Right below inviting the Field Marshal, shooting his stupid face, which is about a hundred miles below inviting a bioweapon inside our defenses. Good thing this General Zippoo isn¡¯t one of those.


    ¡°Yes, my plan has exceeded expectations. Worm, we need to open a dialogue with these guys.¡± I tap a com channel, adding Helen and Corporal to the conversation. ¡°You two, we are preparing to greet General Richard Antonio Zapados, how do we accomplish that mission without getting fragged?¡±


    ¡°Boss, it¡¯s General Ziusudra, not General boots. We should prepare a decon room for them then a reception room for his party. Pretty sure Red had some kind of comfort room near the lab. After that¡¯s set up I could cloak and approach the troopers, a bit shocking but it would give us a chance to talk before they started shooting.¡± Helen offers.


    ¡°Sure, but how do we explain the armor and cloak? They have bioweapons, what if their sensors pick you up first? I doubt they¡¯ll be willing to overlook an invisible trooper.¡±


    Silence for several moments. We are all stumped. Technomancy HQ is the single most valuable real estate on the planet, not because of the solarium rewards, but because it shows the Singularity¡¯s dominance over its sworn rival. The perfect propaganda set. Trying to keep those troopers out is like trying to keep sand from getting into your flip flops. Impossible.


    ¡°They¡¯ll get in one way or another, even if they have to deploy every tunneling tank they have.¡± I opine, hoping my calling out is enough to ward against the tactic.


    Wishful thinking at its worst.


    Worm taps his armor, pantomiming a stroke of the chin. ¡°Right. So we invite them in, give them full access to the base. We need to start hiding all the xeno shit.¡± He fires off a series of rapid orders through the collective mind before continuing. ¡°Of the five tunnels we already collapsed depot lane, just the entrance mind you. Had to seal it up so fungal spores didn¡¯t escape. We can hide the Tulverians in the unfinished tunnel, it¡¯ll only take a few specialized doors and some carefully placed dirt piles to block sensor pings. Iguanas will have to lay low, and not open any of their bathrooms, otherwise General Z will see more than up their scaly skirts.¡± Wormface says.


    ¡°Good good.¡± I say, visibly relaxing in the armor.


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    Allying with the Holy Singularity is the first step to infiltrating them, seeing exactly where my step siblings are and exactly how many humans they kidnapped from Earth. Several giant leaps to not being alone anymore.


    ¡°Now we just need to convince them to get out of the first bath. Good luck with that. You should¡¯ve see them, like pigs in shit- Oh! General Splendeur, how nice to see you.¡± Wormface says, quickly changing his tone when Splendeur, his shield iguana, Helen, Corporal, and Hades come sauntering up the passageway.


    ¡°What is ze meaning of zis!¡± Snaps Splendeur, still dripping a blueish liquid across the epoxy floor.


    Deep down I weep for the loss of biomass. Every drip echoes with the cost of human blood lost, and could have been used to build a starship. Those blue puddles represent minutes of construction time. Okay, maybe just seconds, and maybe I¡¯m being a bit of a drama queen but man is it annoying!


    ¡°General, the Singularity main army is approaching and we intend to rejoin the main army, potentially surrendering this facility to them. I¡¯ve been out of contact for a prolonged period and after Azhurai infiltrators tried to infiltrate their ranks I can¡¯t say if they will pin medals on our chests, or try to exterminate each and every one of us. Especially considering our deal has not been sanctioned by Singularity High Command.¡± I say, adding the last bit as an afterthought.


    Splendeur¡¯s tongues waggle unpleasantly, like overlong banana whips.


    ¡°Oh I see. Do you intend on gunning me down in ze streets?¡± He asks, hand wandering towards what must pass for a banana hammock on Tulveria.


    Their general lack of clothing makes identifying any sort of fashion a tenuous prospect.


    ¡°No. You are a valuable prisoner of war. One who has agreed to work with me¡­ and only me.¡± I say, emphasising the point.


    A second eyelid retracts, displaying crystal sharp eyes. Those peepers look me up and down, then back at the cloaked Predator now called Hades.


    ¡°You have already worked many odd miracles. We entered this bunker with ten men, only for you to gain strength as you cleared it. I would expect a knife in ze tail were it not for your slaughter in tunnel four. Tell me true. Do you have za ship?¡± He asks.


    I want to lie, to blow off any concern and move on to the main problem. But I¡¯ve never been a fan of deceit.


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    His tail slumps, falling idle against the epoxy floor.


    ¡°What we have is under construction, about a third of the way complete and we are developing a contingency plan to acquire additional ships. Flying off this rock will be complicated, especially with a -nameless- ship in orbit. Not many factions surrender willing, and fewer still get to land and withdraw their remaining troops, usually with the aid of an ally or two. But no one has ever tried to desert from Syrak.¡± I shake my head, ¡°If the -nameless- want to stop us, well, you saw them wind back time, next to that we got nothing.¡±


    Splendeur nods sagely. Then opens a third eyelid right in the middle of his forehead. The eye begins weeping blood from both edges like a cursed crucifix. Two drops running down his face, red creeks of iron.


    ¡°We Tulverians have a highly refined sense of smell, had you lied, I would¡¯ve known. Promise me zis. You will keep your word. Zen and only zen will I play along with your games.¡±


    I shrug to conceal a shudder. ¡°I swear to you, for a second time General, that I have every intention of escaping this world and returning you home. Before I return home.¡±


    Quick as it appeared, the eye disappears, concealed under an off colored scale I once mistook as decoration.


    ¡°Zen, what is ze plan?¡±


    ¡°You and the Tulverians pretend to be our prisoners. We¡¯ll disarm you and confine you to the unfinished tunnel. Hopefully this General Z doesn¡¯t notice you. Or at least doesn¡¯t interrogate you about Tulverian access codes. If he does the best we could try and shoot for is a transfer back to your native bunker-¡±


    ¡°-Oh! What a dream! A phantasm of joy! To reclaim my lost command!¡± Interrupts Splendeur.


    ¡°Uh, yeah, they¡¯ll want access.¡±


    Splendeur smiles broadly, ¡°All have ze access, but only you Private Sable Yurten, may have my permission to enter.¡±


    His meaning throws me for a loop, until I recall all Tulverian orders have been verbal, they do not use keypads but auditory vocalizations as their keypads and passwords. I should have known.


    ¡°We can¡¯t enter the bunker without you can we?¡±


    ¡°No, you cannot. Not unless you enjoy pitfalls, pungi sticks, and flammable nerve gases.¡± Says Splendeur, turning and heading back to the bath.


    Part of me wants to shoot him in the back, for holding out on me but the logical part wins and orders Hades to leave him alone, instead of breaking his legs and pulling on his tail each time he attempts to crawl away.


    Whoa, did that come from me? I think, glaring at Hades the fluffy.


    Or did that come from the cat?  Seems more like a mental leak that traveled through our minds, something I¡¯ll have to resolve with Hygieia.


    ¡°Touche General Splendeur. Let us pray I am half the negotiator you are.¡± I say.


    Final orders are given, Helen and corporal depart while we entrench ourselves deeper. Soon I will meet my kidnappers. Those who left me on this world to die for their Singularity, after selling me a false deal. Maybe it¡¯s time to track down information on Jim. A request I send to the Novan AI.

 Chapter 45 Savannah, the Bioweapon (Savannah Perspective)

    With each pull of the trigger I send a bolt of red memories through my skull. A polaroid flash that restored one single shutterframe of my former self. Memories I did not need, that held me back, that diverted attention from the swarm of marble golems in front of me.


    So benign in appearance. Simple creatures that itched my brainstem, picking at the flash training until I saw through the veil of lies and into my other reality.


    Two bipedal statues flew from a distant embankment, scrambling on all fours with feral maws, so alike the legendary werewolves of old, yet covered in silver tassels for fur with golden claws, titanium nitrided edges that end and tead, coming for me.


    My uncurious rifle came up, thumb flicks to full auto for these brutes. A hundred red lines flicker through my vision, impacting the leftmost creature in a spray of marble and golden light. Its arm comes free, leaking yellow liquid so bright it leaves sunspots in my eyes despite the gasmask.


    Reload.


    Around me the squad died, from our starting number of twelve dwindling one by one to four. Sable Yurten unleashed her own rifle on full auto, the blast severing the lycanthropic simulacra¡¯s leg, only for a creature half their size to spring from the trench and slash her wrists open. Corporal Rogers, our squad leader, witnessed the blade pass through both hands, severing all hope Yurten had. He doesn¡¯t bother pulling the shot and obliterates the creature alongside Yurten, stitching them both with red staples. Thankfully sparing her a long drawn out death without a medkit.


    Samson hosed the undamaged lycanthrope with fire, shaking badly as light rekindled my memory. I was not Sarah Green, but Savannah¡­ My last name evaded me, unlike the faces of my parents.


    Magazine clicked home.


    I raised my rifle just in time, lycan poised above me, hanging in middair as I unleashed the rifle''s full capacity at close range. Red fire blazing through legs then staccatoed up its chest to work across sinewed neck.


    Loss of body parts altered the construct¡¯s momentum ripping the pounce into a flailing spin and tossing him over my shoulder, directly into Samson. Teeth clamped, claws flashed.


    I ran, fumbling to recover a power cell for my rifle. Samson¡¯s death rattle is the shockwave of four grenades, all pulled in the vain hope of trading his life for one of theirs.


    ¡°Awwwwooooo.¡± Echoes through the trenches, calling more of the Azhurai¡¯s abominations to the gap.


    ¡°This is Green, we¡¯ve been breached! All dead! We¡¯are all dead!¡± I shout into the com, slurring my words with panic.


    No longer am I trying to reload, only run.


    Fly for my very life.


    This isn¡¯t how I''m meant to die, college, a husband, a good job, all were waiting for me, within my grasp. My unpaid internship at the college of neuroscience was about to complete, I¡¯d only accepted the position in exchange for a nursing certification so I could start working a real job, at a hospital, actually helping people.


    I scramble around the dirt corner, sprinting into view of a firing squad. Twelve troopers all with rifles raised. Emotionless gas masks steel their resolve, to kill our foe they¡¯ll gun me down without a second thought. Just like Rogers did to Yurten.


    Pounding footsteps outpace my own, coming up behind me-


    -The Azhurai are here.


    I am going to die from friendly fire.


    Shit.


    Time slows, cursing me with seconds to ponder my life¡¯s mistakes. We should have told Athena. It was just so impossible to believe, Ashley and Baz? They were siblings for god-sake! She would never have believed us.


    ¡°Get Down.¡±


    The voice conquers my nervous system, knocking me limp. Compelled into the nothingness of an earthworm by the thirteenth figure in the firing line. How I missed his outline earlier seems impossible. They¡¯re eight feet tall, bulky like a football player in two sets of pads, with a four barreled autocannon mounted over one shoulder. Encapsulated in the yellow gold energy of a solarium reactor as if the energy is a shield made solid.


    The bioweapon fires once, the projectile larger than a forty ounce beercan. So large I can see it despite the speed. Behind me I hear the construct stop breathing, its panting suddenly halting as it sees death itself.


    Wait, why would a sculpture breathe at all?


    The explosion flattens me, knocks the wind out of my lungs.


    ¡°Crawl to us.¡± Says the bioweapon, pointing to his boots, or uhm feet. Hard to differentiate as bioweapons wear no clothes; only armor, strength, and more weapons.


    I choke and obey, scrambling as my breath refuses to return.


    Another volley brings more memories, taking me back to middle school, back to when I first kissed a boy. He tasted like strawberry pop tarts, which was more notable than his personality, or would have been, as he threw up before second base. Forever tainting what a kiss could mean, could be.


    Bits of marble scatter across my greatcoat, a fractured hand bouncing off my flak vest. Bits of dead golem. A lash to race me forward. Kissing a Bioweapon¡¯s toes is better than getting caught by the Azhurai.


    Golden energy gathers around him, for it is clearly a him with a glowing codpiece that must conceal a twenty four inch cock. Jesus, hung like a horse is an expression, not meant to be literal! Curiosity taints my already addled brain. Not many women could claim to be so experienced, but such a partner-


    Green pushes the thought away, easily dismissing it in favor of our orders. We crawl. The bioweapon hits us with a diffused wave of yellow light, gently encasing us in some kind of barrier. Like magic. Lungs reinflate despite the concussions echoing behind me. Flashes of yellow and gold pop, like an explosive photographer. A steady light that echoes each of the Bioweapon¡¯s shots.


    I reach the skirmish line, and reload, hands shaking terribly. The man beside me reaches over and flicks the selector to semi auto.


    ¡°Tha-anks.¡± I croak, struggling to speak.


    The others fire, twelve infantry supported by dauntless. Who covers us in golden light once more, this time it zips off us to encase each gun, empowering shots with enough raw zeal to split a scout in half. They come by the dozens, from gorgeous cybernetic bunny rabbits to haunted lycans all funnel into our trench and die. Summoned by Samson¡¯s murderer. The chorus of grenades and howl of his slayer.


    My squad was bait, we were meant to break and fold, so many more lives could be saved. Brutal, yet cunning. Ruthless, and exactly the tactic it will take to win.


    Scouts begin to understand the trap and a few maneuver to the trench¡¯s lip, outside our killzone. An eight legged felinid of some flavor appears above, whiskers, paws, fangs, and four mobile ears. Golden energy swirls around the sculpture, creating a regal mane and saintly halo. Gorgeous. Elegant runes cover the creature, it¡¯s body more a work of art than artifice. Enthralling my heart even as it strikes. Gold beams scatter like dandelion seeds, photon grenades that connect with us. I exhale, preparing for death. One blast is enough to kill us all, so the forty tailed floofs will leave no trace.


    Light explodes, concussions rippling across our shields.


    We don¡¯t have shields. I think, staring numbly as the trench doubles in width from reiterated blasts.


    ¡°Holy shit.¡± I whisper.


    Two shots, is all it takes for the bioweapon to put down the grenade octo-tiger. One to clear blue shielding, a second to remove head and shoulders in a fiery explosion.


    ¡°This is General Ziusudra, decoy operation successful, we¡¯ve got their eyes fixed on us harder the one ring, Field Marshal, uh, sir. Now it¡¯s your turn. Unleash the beast.¡± The bioweapon radios.


    From a nearby trench a howl emerges. Not the loving howl of your average good boi golden retriever, but the howl of an anguished woman who has just seen her firstborn¡¯s skull crushed before her eyes. The meaning of woe. The sheer pain stops my heart, leaving a lump in my throat as a yellow comet streaks across the battlefield. Our firing squad locks up. Driving to stillness as our minds attempt to process the pain of that howl.


    Our crippling terror is for the best.


    For all that moves, dies.


    Two additional felinid scouts see the comet advancing and launch themselves into the air, rising fifty feet in a mad pounce to escape. Too slow. Faster than sight the comet is above them, kicking them into the dirt with supersonic cracks.


    Shields evaporate, yellow blades sprout from the ground like tangling vines piercing feet or thighs. Dozens of advancing machines are caught in the forest of blades, constructs raise their jaws to fight and find the comet transfigured into a burning dervish of yellow blades, one in each hand, moving so swiftly I catch glimpses of their afterimages, whether due to speed or the brilliance of their aura I cannot say. Only light and crisp arcs of swirling sabers.


    Heads roll, reactors pop and the dervish is gone at light speed, racing across the battlefield faster than his howling dirge.


    We hold, uncertain as to the enemy¡¯s response. Five minutes pass, roughly the same amount of time it takes for me to realize I¡¯ve dropped my power cell. This whole time I¡¯ve been standing with an unloaded gun. Well, kneeling, and shivering worse than a frostbitten mammoth buried under ten miles of glacier.


    ¡°You have done well. Hold here a moment.¡± Orders the bulkier of the two killing machines.


    He takes a few steps forward then bounds up the trench wall, kicking off the dirt once to clear the thirty foot height like a sprinting gazelle. The cannon upon his shoulder speaks, firing a dozen rounds in two round bursts at sporadic intervals, as if he is able to aim and fire faster than four barrels can cycle.


    ¡°All clear. They are retreating from this sector.¡± The Heavy bioweapon calls, somehow alighting in front of me without so much as a whisper.


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    His hand cuts my vision, clasping the fallen magazine. I¡¯ve done it now. Proven the flashtraining is faulty. That I¡¯m a defective soldier who needs recursive reconditioning.


    A wig out.


    ¡°Careful soldier, getting a cell dirty is certain to cause malfunctions.¡± He says, stowing the cell in one of my many belt pouches before retrieving a fresh cell and reloading the gun in my arms.


    One finger confirms the safety is on, when did that happen? I set it to full auto-


    -Oh, that¡¯s right, the trooper beside me switched my gun to safe instead of semi auto. How could I have missed that?


    Bioweapon Heavy takes the rifle, slinging it over my head and shoulder then cinches it down tight enough to bend my flak armor inward, emphasising my breasts. Uncomfortably and immediately noticed by Heavy, who stares at my lady lumps for a second too long. Deep down I¡¯m pleased by this display, unlike Athena mine had to have a little surgical assistance before boys started noticing me. I¡¯m jealous of her naturals, though it was nice to have someone I could borrow bras from.


    I should have told her.


    Ashley wasn¡¯t any good, always talking shit behind her back. Why didn¡¯t we tell her?


    Bioweapon Heavy pats my shoulder, his face an unreadable mask of steel. That¡¯s always the worst part of these demons, how human they appear in every aspect except the featureless faces.


    ¡°On your feet. Safety is ahead of us, not behind.¡± Says Heavy, lifting me by the armpits.


    ¡°I saw my whole squad die.¡± I whisper.


    I try to stand, really I do, but my knees refuse to hold still, knocking off each other. Heavy cocks his head, looking down at the odd noise. This is it, the moment he can no longer ignore my cowardice. Eyelids slid shut, not wanting to see it coming, that will only make me anxious and dead. He¡¯ll be quick, efficient.


    After all, the bioweapons are masters of death.


    ¡°Reminds me of my first battle.¡± Heavy says. ¡°Yes, I can see the problem clearly now.¡±


    Something hard and cold slides behind my knees, probably a bayonet. Cutting off my legs is certainly one solution to their knocking.


    Gravity inverts, I¡¯m floating, one rod behind my knees and another behind my waist, a hand rises from each rod, trapping me against the sturdiest chest I¡¯ve ever had the pleasure of touching. Defined pecs are engraved into his armor, somewhat an odd embellishment without anatomically correct nipples.


    I¡¯m being carried. Eyes open and I¡¯m in his arms, traversing the battlefield ahead of the squad. Is he using me as ablative armor, am I to absorb shrapnel so he can counter attack?


    ¡°You¡¯ve been on your feet too long, twas good to escape that trap. Led them right to us soldier. After that scramble you must be exhausted so rest a while.¡± He says, pausing for a moment. ¡°Indeed, fire artillery ahead of advancing columns. But be careful! No more friendly fire or I shall replace your entire crew.¡± Heavy orders, his voice tighter than the moon¡¯s gravity.


    We march for hours across deeply rutted trenches and thousands of bodies. Only pausing to rest in the carcasses of defeated nations, whose fortresses once ruled this land. Prior invaders, forgotten to the radiation of time. All structures rust and whither, just like the dead. From Novan technicians to Tulverian grunts to Juggernauts who force us to walk single file or squeeze through an already narrow passage.


    Two are so tight we have to cut them in half with demolition charges, then heavy sets me down and drags the wreckage free for others to pass. Until the last one, which he rips into six pieces and tosses them sixty feet into the air. Like he is playing catch with chunks of tank. Those probably weigh more than a metric Honda Civic and he just tosses them like they¡¯re nothing, then picks me up again and marches onward.


    If my knees weren¡¯t weak before, they are now. So feeble I doubt they¡¯ll ever stand again.


    But Heavy never stops the march, always carrying me, so gentle. I can¡¯t understand why he treats me this way. Why spare a wig out? Were my rifle not strapped to me I would have lost it. We both know I¡¯ll never fight again.


    So why spare me?


    Ten miles later we encounter the second bioweapon, kneeling, six blades stuck into the corpse of an Azhurai warrior, this one carved in the image of a hippopotamus, delicate curves adorn every inch of this creature heralding thousands of laborious hours spent decorating a damn hippo. Like a million ribbons gilding the most literal fatass. I can¡¯t help myself, laughter echoes out of my gasmask.


    Yellow liquid leaks across the second bioweapon like dozens of burst veins, bathing in the solarium¡¯s dying blood. Heavy investigates the other bioweapon closely, careful to never touch. Up close I find this one fascinating. Cracks run along his armor patched with gold filigree in a beautiful display of something that was once broken can be repaired and be made better for the damage. Gold cracks criss cross his body a dozen running towards a circle near the center of his chest. My hand extends, wandering towards the heart spirals.


    ¡°Leave him be.¡± Warns Heavy, stepping out of reach. ¡°I treasure all my brothers but this one, ah, whatever personality he once possessed has become¡­ Edgy.¡± He pauses, and I swear the bioweapon giggled. Impossible, I must be hallucinating. ¡°Ahem, I meant to say he has become a blade.Mind broken by pain on an endless loop of suffering, caught in the moment his sword was-¡± Heavy pauses again, ¡°No, you¡¯re right.¡± He mutters to himself, that small gesture the most disturbing thing I could have ever heard. For I¡¯m trapped between arms of steel.


    ¡°Bioweapons are uhm, flashtrained with certain memories, painful ones, not the camaraderie we give you all. But of eternal suffering, fighting the most desperate of battles, impossible fight, like The Alamo, or the hot gates of Thermopoly, we suffer through those hells, fighting unwinnable battles again and again and again, thousands of iterations, until we find a way to win; and in doing so, we leave a fragment of ourselves behind. Something important. My brother there has not yet made peace with his loss. Even now he fights those old battles. See how his fingers twitch? As if grasping a hilt, pain, suffering, hatred, and berserking blades are all he can recall. Blind to what he once was. Now the only feeling he understands is the parting of flesh. Exhausted as he is, even I would not be recognizable through the bloodlust. Do not touch him. Nor any of those blades.¡± Heavy orders, warning the squad. ¡°I¡¯ve marked his location, best leave him to the handlers.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir!¡± Echoes through a legion of men and women.


    Somehow our squad of twelve has become a train of scores, more than I can count. Light vehicles have joined our march, self propelled mortars, anti tank particle cannons capable of firing a stream of atoms at relativistic speeds to warp holes in the heaviest of armor, and even one of the rare aura shielding platforms accompanies us, a sort of tracked shield generator that shields an area from direct or indirect fire. Generally those are reserved for high ranking officers or special missions.


    We pass a collapsed bunker, the entrance sealed and covered with dirt, a Juggernaut lays dead in front of the collapsed wreckage yet we find hundreds of quartzlike spines littering the ground. As if the Collective¡¯s dogs fought a war here then some flesh eating gas purged the battlefield.


    ¡°Ah, I had hoped to rest here and use this bunker as a node in our supply chain. No matter. Logistics will have to dig a new fortification. But not here, no, another location should be more defensible.¡± Says Heavy, sending a series of messages as he leads us deeper into Novan territory. Occasionally he stops to shield a soldier in solarium energies, the stable barriers enveloping all who follow him. Unlike the Berserker Heavy is meant to support and protect, not purely as a weapon of infinite destruction.


    We encounter corpses  of bioforms, discolored and rotting, without any sign of visible wounds.


    ¡°What happened?¡± I croak, vice rusty from hours of silence.


    ¡°Must have died to local diseases, the fate of all initial landings. If any Matriarchs survived we¡¯ll soon have to contend with a second column, one that does not die off from the common cold.¡± Heavy opines, taking several long moments to issue orders.


    ¡°Ignore the Tulverian fortress for now. You heard me. Bypass it, keep assaulting the Azhurai, constant pressure, I want them bottled up in their fortress and a siege trench dug. Lock that bitch down like Warfield locked down Char! What¡¯s that? Don¡¯t know who Warfield is? Ahhh! Lock it down like the great wall of China! As if Mongols are coming to rape and pillage all our assholes. Yes Bastion, even your cybernetic outlets! Got it? Good! General out.¡± Heavy snaps, carrying on a one sided conversation as we walk.


    We¡¯re close now. Within range of the Technomancy¡¯s main bunker where we stop for the day. Spending the remaining daylight frugally. A series of new trenches is dug, with us constructing a sort of mini lock-ade consisting of four walls obscuring the trench and a central zone that is fully enclosed and dug off to the side so one cannot plow through the walls with sheer firepower. The work progresses to completion within hours, aided by the shield generator.


    Not only can the guardian tank shield us, but it can project the shield into various shapes like a plow or dozer and then push that projection forward on reactor power alone, without the need for solid footing. That one tank digs half the bunker, leaving the others to clear away the rent dirt and mud. I¡¯m useless throughout, unable to steady my shaking hands.


    Heavy shows no sign of setting me down, nor does he ask. At any other time in my twenty odd years of life I would consider this kidnapping, but today I¡¯m glad for the comfort. Night falls, and Heavy finally deposits me in a corner. The words I''ve been thinking for hours finally escape my mouth in a darkly caged whisper.


    ¡°Are you going to leave me here to die?¡±


    Heavy stops, then kneels beside me. Performing the strangest of tasks. He undoes my bootlaces.


    ¡°Ah, I see the problem.¡± Heavy begins, kneeling at my feet, ¡°A millennia later and the standard issue boots are still one-size-fits-none.¡± He says, with a smile audible in his words. ¡°If you were meant to die then you would not be given that,¡± he taps on my chest, right between my boobs, to touch the rifle sling.


    My eyes flick involuntarily to his codpiece, yep, still two feet long. Large enough to pass for the ramming prow of a Collective warship.


    He catches my gaze. Reading my thoughts like an old accomplice.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t work. Never has really. I think it''s a supercapacitor, every now and again it starts humming like a beehive, so maybe a reactor, but the shape was always for show.¡± He says, knocking on the armored protrusion.


    ¡°Why spare me?¡± I whisper, ¡°My whole squad died, we can¡¯t go home, I saw them all torn apart-¡±


    Heavy taps my mask, finger on trajectory to cover my lips.


    ¡°You¡¯re safe now. Normally it¡¯s Rogers who ties his laces too tight, let me get these for you.¡± Heavy works as he talks, something melodic in his voice, as if I¡¯m wrapped in a warm blanket on a snowy December day. ¡°Listen. Sarah Green, you were meant to survive. That is why the field marshal sent me.¡± He says, resting beside me for several moments.


    Officers approach, orders and logistics discussed, plans given. Not for one siege, but three. The war is going well, Tulverian central command is surrounded with no sign of life from the bunker. Meanwhile the Azhurai conglomerate have sent hundreds of infiltrators, humans who attempt to pass as Singularity troopers. A cunning plan, if the humans were not all lab grown. Hard to miss a dozen perfect specimens strolling through our bunkers. Such an obvious plan, like sending Jennifer Aniston to work ¡®undercover¡¯ at starbucks, or Prince Valerian to take your order at Wendy¡¯s. They will be noticed. A flaw so amateurish that Heavy seems crestfallen by the efforts.


    To say we are winning is an understatement. In a week we¡¯ll reach the mountains that cut the continent in half and begin the long march across the plateau to the other side. For whatever reason the mountains are abandoned despite being a more advantageous arena for defenders. Something about only arable land counting towards solarium requisitions, so apparently mountains and water do not count towards the allotments. Still, a third of the content belongs to the Holy Singularity. My brainstem¡¯s second to last thought of the day.


    Followed shortly by thoughts of Athena, bra-mate must hate me, if only we warned her.


    ¡°Athena, if you¡¯re still out there, I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯d do anything to set things right.¡± I whisper, falling into painful dreams of college nurseries.


    ¡ª


    -Richard¡¯s Perspective-


    It just had to be my goddamned ex who wigged out. The one who broke her flashtraining and was sentenced to death by Bastion the asshole. Maybe I should call him Basshole, but naw, sounds too fishy. Which, coincidentally, would still have more spine than Savannah.


    Who quakes at every touch, flinching away from me with every word. Unable to hold her rifle or walk unaided. Heavy offers to take control, to make her death a painless beheading. Exactly as he did to my parents.


    I shake my head no. Not the same. Bastion made me watch, a crime Heavy will not allow a second time.


    At least we are agreed there. One day I shall free Heavy, and on that day, Bastion will die. Tis a simple plan, only needing Baz¡¯s compliance, if he could tame the Berserker, and quit trying to bang his sister.


    Deep down, I sincerely hope they are step siblings. At least then they could pretend to be less degenerate than pornstars.


    Savannah looks into our face, where my eyes should be.


    ¡°Am I going to die here?¡± She whispers.


    ¡°Savannah, st now, you¡¯re safe. That is why I was sent, and why I fight. To protect Mankind.¡±


    She¡¯s asleep before I finish, trembling her way through a slew of fresh nightmares. Throughout the night I keep watch, listening to Savannah¡¯s tears, of how she should have told Athena.


    ¡°What an odd name. Neat, but oh man are those some impossible sandals to fill. Athena, goddess of wisdom, virtue, chastity, and war? Yeah right, aint no way a woman could live up to that ideal, how can you be wise to all things without having loved at least one person? How can you master war without losing some virtue, be it charity or peace?


    I shake my head, thinking how nice it would be if such a woman could exist.

 Chapter 46 Reunion

    The Singularity gave us one day to prepare. We watched as thousands of soldiers massed outside our doors, building a network of trenches and counter defilades within the Novan¡¯s old trenches often digging foxholes or building walls right down the middle. No longer were these protected roads suitable for Juggernauts, or grav sleds, only infantry and the single tracked vehicles of the Singularity¡¯s conscripted veterans.


    One day was plenty. Twelve Juggernauts now stood guard over the Bunker entrance, each positioned in a firing lane all its own. The Tulverians were moved so as to better stand guard next to the smaller of the two vaults and the tunneling drill the Novans first used to make the bunker was repaired and set to work expanding tunnel five. Now driven by iguana pilots, along with all excavating equipment. With any luck I can bury Singularity with the cover of slave labor, my best attempt at explaining their presence. Still, they¡¯ll be bottled up inside tunnel five when General Zebra arrives.


    ¡°Boss, we¡¯re maxed out. All biomass deployed. Hygieia requests we empty the recycler and scavenge biomass from the foundry. A stance Alaea agrees with.¡± Says Wormface.


    ¡°Thanks. Looks like a scouting party is headed our way, go greet them with Helen. I need to have words with my other thirds.¡±


    ¡°Yessir!¡±


    >Terran Athena: Girls, what the hell?! We are not blending people!


    >Executrix Alaea: What if they¡¯re pedophiles?


    My jaw bounces off my chest. Too stunned to formulate more than a single word question.


    >Terran Athena: Explain.


    >Executrix Alaea: I¡¯ve been poking around the Factory¡¯s specifications¡­ The Novans wanted certain uh, personality traits for their Juggernaut pilots¡­ Okay look, I¡¯ll just say it. Everyone in those tubes is a psychopathic murderer who will take pleasure in uhm.. Landing their shots on target. Turns out that a subset of pedos have enough self loathing to enjoy having their bodies removed and implanted into an enormous tank that gets to murder smaller things¡­ Yeah, I don¡¯t get it either. Nor do I want to understand. Ask the Novan computer if you need confirmation.


    More out of shock than distrust, I comply, interrogating the AI via a chat window, ineffective and slow. But ten minutes later and the computer finally spat out that maybe one human being in the foundry wasn¡¯t a complete piece of pediphilic trash. Although that might just have been a technicality since they hadn¡¯t been convicted.


    ¡°Just a week ago I would have left them alone. Cryo stasis will keep them from harming anyone ever again.¡± I say with a heavy sigh.


    But it¡¯s not a week prior. Allowing these viscous mongrels to live will only result in other¡¯s pain.


    >Terran Thena: I don¡¯t want to hear about it, or see any part of it.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: making the universe safer


    [+500 biomass]


    In that moment I hate it all. Were I given the choice between keeping my telekinesis, warping abilities, and tri-personality I would trade it all for a single do over. But I can¡¯t. I¡¯m not one of the -nameless- and Kerrigan still needs me.


    >Terran Thena: Any progress on Kerrigan? Has the lab turned up anything useful?


    >Executrix Alaea: I¡¯ve purged the lab. Five specimens remain, the others were not sentient and did not have the capacity for sentience. Hygieia has their biomass.


    [+50 psychically viable biomass [very weak]]


    I¡¯m silent for a long moment. Reading her words thrice to make sure.


    >Terran Thena: ¡­


    >Terran Thena: When were you going to tell me?


    >Terran Thena: Are you cooking up another Kerrigan?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: uhm¡­ no¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: Hygieia might have left humanity behind, but she¡¯s not a psychopath. Kerrigan isn¡¯t replaceable. But¡­ uh- it¡¯s way creepier.


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    >Matriarch Hygieia: So¡­ I know you¡¯re attached to Kerrigan, that isn¡¯t a line I¡¯m willing to cross. But I uhm. Saw how you piloted Hades and got to thinking¡­


    >Terran Thena: Stop.


    >Terran Thena: Don¡¯t say it.


    Her usage of proper punctuation and caps is enough for me to guess what she has done. It¡¯s impressive, a masterful stroke of straingineering; and the most cardinal abomination I¡¯ve ever conceived.


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯m not mad. But we will never discuss that further. Understand?


    >Executrix Alaea: Understood.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Understood.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Oh I made a Kerrigan clone too, but that¡¯s only so we could try and figure out what to do with her. Alaea borrowed her brain and I broke the rest of her down.


    >Executrix Alaea: Anything to save Kerrigan. You can have the brain back. I think I see what Red did, but really I need hard physical access to the central AI before I¡¯m doing any neurosurgery.


    Wormface chose that moment to share his vision, ending all discussion of clones and maybes to show Beefcake the bioweapon standing next to several troopers. Two wear the ranks of lieutenants, a first class and a second class with a handful of aids hiding behind them. If these are flash trained troopers, they received no bravery from the conditioning.


    ¡°Guess Jim didn¡¯t lie about everything. Some people won¡¯t be turned into warriors. Damn, I really hope there is a farming world out there that took most of Earth¡¯s citizens.¡± I hope aloud.


    ¡°Boss, the bioweapon wants to survey the bunker.¡± Wormface says.


    The absolute worst case scenario is on my doorstep. I don¡¯t even have a proper name for these things and one just invited itself in for tea and god damned crumpets! Their guns are unique to them, without any logical ammo containers or power cells and I have no idea what this particular monster¡¯s abilities are. We have no established countermeasures nor any idea on how they function or even how they MIGHT function.


    ¡°I want to hear it speak. Tell him we¡¯ve-¡±


    -my throat swells shut, saving me from saying ¡®we¡¯ve killed them before¡¯-


    ¡°-ahem, I¡¯ve seen them go insane before. Start seeing former friends as enemies.¡± I finish.


    Wormface relays my message and the bioweapon places his hands together in a bow.


    ¡°My apologies for previous encounters. Not all of my kind are stable and all too often we discover instabilities through the rigours of frontline combat. I am one of the few stable creations, and am willing to remain outside the bunker or participate via tight beam communications chained to me from your conference room by unarmed troopers.¡±


    A second stretches into a minute while I process the magnanimous words. He speaks more honestly than any bioweapon I¡¯ve ever heard tale of, and far more coherently. Then he said the words I cannot ignore. He¡¯s stable. A stable bioweapon. What we hope to turn Kerrigan into. No way can we pass up this opportunity.


    ¡°Bioweapons can kill with anything and everyone, if he wants in, everyone in the entry team must unload their weapons.¡±


    For the second time in one day mandible bounces off my armor as the troopers -officers included- remove power cells or magazines from their weapons, including a number of odd looking earth pistols, I¡¯ve seen them in movies but have no idea what they are. Dad only taught me how to use guns he owned, like the FNX, a few Glocks which all work the same anyways, and 1911s an American classic that was more a status symbol than fancy sportscars or Mohecan ATVs.


    Helen leads the way, escorting them to a recently cleared out supply room in tunnel 4, where decontamination and sealed rations are waiting, both captured Singularity rations and Technomancy sealed jars. A quick scan is performed by two aids, both wearing red crosses on their flak vests, medical staff who give the rations a clear bill of health. But then something strange occurs, 1st LT looks to the bioweapon, as if asking permission.


    ¡°Decon first, don¡¯t want to mix Alpha or Beta particles with food.¡± Beefcake advises.


    ¡°Yessir.¡± 1st LT snaps, saluting in singularity fashion.


    ¡°Damnit.¡± I mutter, wishing they had chosen some other salute.


    While the kinematics of human arm structure means simple salutes will inevitably be recycled across different cultures, the straight arm raised makes me think NAZI! Shorting out my brain as the flashtraining asserts -emphatically- that it only means ¡®For the Glory of Mankind my Brother¡¯.


    Through the suit cams or eyes of symbiote driven technicians, we watch the delegation carefully. Should a fight break out I need the spinolings and combat troopers to be an unexpected quantity. Same with our squad of four roaches, all Hygieia could spare as our customized roaches pull triple duty. Biomass reclaimers, ship scavengers, and brood guardians.


    Soon the freshly scrubbed war criminals are headed my way, en route to the ¡®ambassadorial¡¯ closet we¡¯ve prepared. A room packed with every luxury on base, and not ten feet from Red¡¯s laboratory. Or a parked Plasma-naut and two armored grav sleds with a combat detachment. With a second checkpoint mirroring the first 100 meters down the tunnel, providing plenty of time for the tanks to charge weapons and return fire should anything go awry.


    80 / 80 Biomass (Hygieia¡¯s pool of available biomass)


    834 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress (roaches have scavenged 100 biomass from shipmind)


    80 / 80 Mechanized armors


    30 / 50 Vehicles


    1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts


    12 Nanofactories


    1 MacroFactory (Foundry) Novan Primary Fabricator


    20 / 100 Project ¡®ODIN¡¯


    [+50 psychically viable biomass] (goes into a separate reservoir where Hygieia will refine further. Why make fifty weakass empaths like Helen when you can boil it down and make 5 kickass Kerrigans?)

 Chapter 47 Council of Nova

    -Across the universe, time rewinds, perceptible only to the exalted -nameless- and their forlorn cousins. Those who abandoned unity to protect all.-


    My head ached. Like a dozen nails were driven into my brainstem from every angel, from the front of my throat, or behind my ears, and down through the crown of my skull. Pain I was finding easier to push aside. Be it a gift from Hygieia or Alaea.


    Fifty paces to my front a blast door rumbled open, squishing dirt from its footing. Turns out that we were six steps behind the Singularity in cunning. They arrived with a squad of ten, Bioweapon included and asked to parley. Worm sent an infested trooper in tech armor to greet them, cycling the blast doors in case it was a deception. And to keep out the radiation. My zerg cells might be able to fight cancer, but that¡¯s no reason to invite radiation into our home.


    While those units moved I took a moment to warp in Hygieia¡¯s unspeakable crime. We may never discuss it, but that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m against using it. Kinda like baking with real butter, absolutely delicious, and gluten free¡­ So long as you don¡¯t tell Savannah why the cookies are so delicious. Or that two whole sticks of butter are why she always preferred Whorely¡¯s ¡®gluten free¡¯ cookies.


    Man, Whorely was a real piece of work, looking back I can¡¯t think of a single sincere thing she ever did.


    At least I¡¯ll never see her again. No way would she survive Syrak-9¡¯s war, not even if she somehow got turned into a bioweapon.


    ¡°Ha, as if that could happen.¡± I laugh, moving dozens of units into position.


    Ashley must be dead, a fate I¡¯ll share if this bioweapon detects our scanning equipment. The proximity to Red¡¯s Lab wasn¡¯t an accident, oh no, we needed to get Mr. Stable A. Beefcake within range of its most advanced sensors, including the two Juggernauts who are both high fidelity Plasmanauts, equipped with additional sensors.


    I considered keeping Hades around, but don''t dare keep him in range of a bioweapon¡¯s scanners. Besides, the predator is happy to return, gaining an odd amount of satisfaction simply from napping near the biopools, as if Hygieia dialed up its guard-cat impulses to eleven.


    Time to stand somewhere safe and remotely observe the bioweapon. I stuff myself into a supply closet and take command of an Infested trooper, a uniquely unpleasant affair as I¡¯m not piloting a human body, but a worm whose dendrites have splayed across the mental gyri before plunging into sulci and eternally intertwining itself with the human brain. Dendrites that now move under my command. Removal after so thorough an infestation seems impossible-


    -I can¡¯t think about that now. Most of our symbiotes are piloting lobotomy victims, NPCs in the worst sense of the term.


    So I accept the altered perspective of piloting a pilot who is piloting a human, careful to alter nothing, touch nothing, and force no orders as the outer blastdoor opens.


    Visor darkens to deflect incoming sunshine and for a moment no one moves. Standing silent, sizing each other up. The heavy bioweapon stands in the rear, a buxom soldier in his shadow. Two lieutenants push to the front, a first lieutenant in pristine flak armor leading the way while the lower ranked second lieutenant in equally overshined equipment tags along, their aids clutching data-pads, tablet computers more powerful than all of Earth¡¯s microchips, with useful features like holographic projectors built in.


    We salute in Singularity Fashion, the raised arm gesture running contrary to Earthling sensibilities. Both LTs return the salute with sloppy punches, fulfilling the requirements and not the intent. Instantly making my hackles rise. If I¡¯m forced to endure the indignity of saluting, then the least these chucklefucks could do is return the courtesy!


    ¡°We are here to claim Technomancy sector 0001 in the name of our Holy Singularity! Given our overwhelming numbers and entrenched positions we shall not be offering any terms other than a full unconditional surrender.¡± 1st LT snaps, somehow managing to sound nasally through a gasmask.


    Our dislike for the man is immediate, even the piloted human wants to dickpunch this self important patsy. The LT hasn¡¯t even realized he is the messenger sent to die, the replaceable pawn sent to deliver unacceptable terms.


    Which gives me a flurry of ideas.


    Our helmet visor swishes back revealing our gasmask.


    ¡°Uh, that will be quite impossible LT.¡± I say, pronouncing the shorthand for his rank.


    ¡°And why in Unity¡¯s name not?!¡± 1st LT snaps.


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    We rub our chin, pretending to think, ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? We are both part of the Holiest Singularity.¡± I answer with borrowed lips, ¡°You¡¯ve misidentified us, guess that explains why all your guns are pointed at us, thought you were more of them Azhurai spies-¡±


    ¡°AZHURAI SPIES! I¡¯ve never been so insulted in my life! What rank incompetence! Where is your commander? I¡¯ll have you flogged for negligence!¡± Snaps 1st LT.


    I can¡¯t help myself, and respond to the meaningless threat in the only way I know how. ¡°Oh no, not flogging. Let me see if the commander is available.¡± We say aloud.


    Datapads go white, clutched tighter than pearls, and the two lieutenants stiffen. Only the girl with the bioweapon reacts contrary to what I expect, a hand going to her mask, as if stifling a laugh.


    I press a few buttons on my HUD, remotely closing the blastdoors. Impatient assholes can wait on my schedule.


    My radio chirps, Wormface on the line, ¡°How long do you want to wait Commander?¡±


    ¡°Ah, lets bring up some grav sleds for em, have some troopers chauffeur them around and decon their assholes. Maybe they¡¯ll be less full of shit then. I¡¯ll see y¡¯all in the fancy closet.¡± I say, feeling as though orders are being repeated.


    ¡°Yessir!¡± Answers Wormface.


    I disconnect from the symbiote, leaving him and Worm to work out the finer details. With no complications arising, a surprising development given that we make them disarm to enter with a bioweapon. They comply immediately, bioweapon included, who helps the woman at his side unload her gun. Once again the unsettling feeling of Deja-vu scratches at my conscience, making me reach out to the only psychics I know.


    >Terran Thena: Hey¡­ Deja-vu, I¡¯m feeling it all over the place.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: me too


    >Executrix Alaea: Well yeah, of course you are. Someone turned back the clock about an hour.


    >Terran Thena: What? Daylight savings doesn¡¯t give you headaches. Or at least, it¡¯s not supposed to, the whole concept is kinda jank.


    >Executrix Alaea: lol. Daylight savings? No, I mean time travel. Across the entire galaxy. We¡¯re now in a field that operates about 1% faster chronologically than the rest of the universe. Shouldn¡¯t take long before we normalize timelines.


    >Terran Thena: I understand the words you are saying, but¡­ That¡¯s just not possible.


    >Executrix Alaea: Don¡¯t try to make sense of it. I think Kaalra and his boys just chronologically nuked a rebellion. But that¡¯s above my pay grade¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: Actually¡­ Kerrigan is a psychic. I can finally open the door.


    >Terran Thena: If she doesn¡¯t try to kill you first.


    >Executrix Alaea: Good point, time to find some catnip.


    We laugh, chit chatting to pass the time. Who could have guessed talking to yourself would be so much fun?


    An hour later the delegation is decontaminated, fed, and on a partial tour, doing everything possible to keep the Technocracy rations -recycled sludge- down.


    Good thing the antigrav sleds are gentler than clouds; soft nimbi that carry our guests down long passages, careful to avoid anything bumpy, like tunnel 1¡¯s collapse, or tunnel 5 which is ¡®under construction¡¯, a deception that seems to satisfy the officers.


    ¡°Please,¡± 2nd LT moans, ¡°The aids can tour later, just land this luddite contraption!¡±


    A request that ends the tour. After a direct flight to the room adjacent of Red''s laboratory as it¡¯s one of the few rooms with a locking door and furniture, probably some kind of personal storage locker now turned into our ¡®ambassadorial closet¡¯. Plush cushions line heavy duty metal couches, thick enough to conform to power armor or the various racial needs of Syrak¡¯s generals; from iguana to cephalopod to human all should be comfortable. Genuine wood tables adorn the room giving it a distinctly aromatic scent, for those who can stomach removing their gasmasks. Plus it¡¯s noticeably warmer than the otherwise clinical temperature of the Novan bunker.


    I¡¯m already outside the door, wearing Singularity formal attire, a gift cooked up by Alaea and Hygieia. Freshly manufactured and committing the capital offense of not wearing rank or name insignia. Damp air parts as the door whooshes open for me, sweeping into the room with Barker¡¯s squad of melee-retrofits waiting just outside. Helen and Barker enter with me, taking up positions opposite the LTs. Like proper negotiators they are sitting on one side of the table, deliberately selecting the side with taller cushions in some vapid power move.


    So asinine. A real power move would be wearing power armor, or walking in nude with only a suitcase nuke to preserve your modesty. Which is a kickass idea, I may just try that with the Azhurai.


    1st LT adjusts his mask, ¡°These austere conditions are really how you treat officers?¡±


    It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. This guy is a child, who read every self-help book on how to be an alpha male and missed the point. Masculine men are 100% my type, but this yokel makes Barker look house trained. I bet he was some kind of Human Resource manager who is about to start handing out ¡®power handshakes¡¯ where they jerk you in tight and put their hand on your shoulder like an overfamiliar corporate manager.


    ¡°Gentlemen, I¡¯m glad to see that our relief force has finally arrived. It lifts our spirits to see such fine warriors conquer Syrak-9.¡± I say, giving them my friendliest ¡®god bless¡¯.


    ¡°Ah, finally some proper hospitality!¡± 1st LT snaps, rising and saluting properly.


    I return the salute, executing it crisply, dragging out each gesture in a methodical parade of precision meant to mock him. As it takes several seconds longer and leaves the LT with arms at his side.


    ¡°Yes, excellent form.¡± He sneers, eyes flicking to where my name should be.


    The lack of insignia is also noticed, as is the lack of my gasmask. An armor my opposites use to conceal their facial expressions. In hindsight I should have worn one¡­ If I weren¡¯t planning deeper offenses.

 Chapter 48 Negotiating with an Asshole

    ¡°Ah I see now, you constructed a new uniform in preparation for our arrival. I must commend your diligence in resupplying Singularity forces Private Yurten. In accordance with your substantial accomplishments you are hereby ordered to return to Singularity Staging Area 0001 and issue a full report directly to the Field Marshal himself. Pursuant to this course you and your squadrons shall vacate the premises immediately.¡± 1st LT says.


    I almost accept his offer. The chance to see Baz. To enter the same room as that sister-fucking-asshole? Oh, it would be perfect.


    If the flash training hadn¡¯t killed Baz more effectively than a lobotomy. Tempting as power-fisting his stupid face is, I just won¡¯t be satisfied unless he understands exactly why I want to murder him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry first lieutenant, my orders come from the Field Marshal himself, not one step back. We must press forward unto victory!¡± I shout, raising a fist and smile.


    The aids tense, shoulders tightening and I see more than half reach for their pistols. We only made them unload magazines, not remove any daggers -ceremonial or otherwise- and hand over explosives, which are currently sitting on a grav sled outside this room.


    Unfortunately for us, the datapads run off power cells that are interchangeable with C3 pistol cartridges, if any of these aids fancy themselves as tactical operators, they could rearm in seconds.


    ¡°Yes yes, you¡¯ve been a good trooper. It is time to be rewarded, to receive a promotion and join us as a fellow officer.¡± 1st LT says.


    The lie is obvious, only tempting to a soldier whose flashtraining is fully intact. The funny thing about flashtraining being instant and complete, is that soldiers can¡¯t actually be promoted. They do not flashtrain officer qualities onto basic troops. So the only time a promotion would be logical, is if you¡¯ve exceeded the training¡¯s parameters.


    Sure a corporal might rise to take command of a sergeant¡¯s role, or a sergeant might be forced to command two squads or even rise to the rank of a 2nd Lieutenant, but a private jumping five ranks to become a 1st lieutenant? Never.


    Besides, I have no knowledge of a Lieutenant''s duties, nor any component of the officer¡¯s flash training or any ability to function within the logistical maze of Singularity office politics. Part of me is impressed by this officer¡¯s cunning, he¡¯s got me dead to rights. No matter what I say it¡¯ll be a death sentence. Return to Baz and be recursively retrained, or admit I¡¯m a wig out here and now so the bioweapon can apply similar recursive retraining.


    Yep, 1st LT was definitely a corporate HR asshole. The dude you kept in a closet until it was time to fire someone.


    I laugh.


    Long and hard.


    We knew they were going to try something like this and they were kind enough to get it out of the way in seconds!


    ¡°Haha! Oh LT, you can¡¯t promote a paper bag, let alone a soldier. I¡¯m almost insulted that you think trading command of a bunker for a bullet to the brain is a reasonable accolade.¡± I cackle, wiping a tear of mirth from my eye.


    His pistol is out of its holster and pointed at my forehead in a second. Smile never leaving my face as he pulls the trigger. I decide to salt the wounded pride of a fool.


    ¡°You¡¯re a broken ape who can¡¯t even tell his pistol is unloaded. Never in a million lifetimes would I turn command of this base over to an incompetent like you. Use that brain for one second, I was dumped onto the frontlines without a squad or gun and yet I found a path to victory.


    I killed four Juggernauts!¡± I¡¯m shouting now, slamming both palms into the wooden table to punctuate each sentence.


    ¡°I salvaged their corpses and recovered enough abandoned souls to take this base!


    I killed hundreds of human beings!


    I conquered the Novan Technomancy of Steel!¡±


    And you waltz in here like a dung beetle come to pick up my shit? Hell no. What have you accomplished?!¡± I scream, looking down the barrel of his gun without an ounce of fear.


    My hands slap the table once more, smarting from the repeated blows. I really should have worn gloves, but at least I had time to trim these clear fingernails.


    ¡°What have you done? Won a raffle that one in fifty people won?!¡± I shout, finally falling silent.


    His gun is still pointed between my eyes.


    ¡°Fearless, tis truly regrettable. But I am taking this base.¡± He answers, pulling the trigger again.


    The pistol clicks, empty. A fact he hasn¡¯t grasped.


    I let him see my eyes roll then.


    ¡°You do not recognize the weight of an unloaded pistol because flash training throws off your self perspective. There is no power cell. You can¡¯t feel it cause you only remember how light the pistol felt during flashtraining. But that wasn¡¯t your flabby ass. It was a real warrior¡¯s body. I bet that empty pistol feels heavier to you than a fully loaded rifle from your memories.¡±


    He stammers, one hand going to cover the gasmask.


    ¡°What? I don¡¯t understand! This weapon was bestowed upon me by the HOLY Singularity. It has to come with a power cell-¡±


    ¡°Face the truth. Your memories are from a real warrior who earned his command and did more than carry that pistol, he used it everyday. When was the last time you actually shot someone with it?¡±


    I stick a finger in the magazine well running it down the corner where dust gathers during a reload. Then withdraw the digit. It, like the gun, is spotless.


    ¡°You¡¯ve never fired it. Probably never reloaded it either. That is why I have no fear, you couldn¡¯t kill me if you wanted to.¡± I say, finally sitting down.


    1st LT is quivering, whole body shaking at the complete loss of face. I don¡¯t need to see through his mask, it¡¯s clear that veins are bulging an angry purple. Aides look from him to me and back again, mentally prohibited from understanding why this is no longer their LT.


    The bioweapon moves, two steps, no more, no less. Perfectly gauging the distance between him and the lieutenant. One hand rising.


    I¡¯ve always known the bioweapons perceive the universe differently than humans, they¡¯d have to, as they have no faces, no eyes, no mouth, no ears. But it was not until Beefcake faced me -head on- and karate chopped his officer¡¯s neck do I realize exactly how detached they are.


    Fingers, declawed, unbarbed, standard looking human fingers, slash through 1st LT¡¯s neck beheading him like one might casually dust their blinds. There is no strength in the chop, no hesitation. Simply a knife hand slicing through spine. Barker and Helen leap to their feet raising their rifles.


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    ¡°Wait!¡± I order, trying to keep my trembling heart out of my voice.


    For a long second no one moves, all parties silent as 1st LT¡¯s body collapses to the floor.


    ¡°That was terribly rude Mr Stable A. Beef- ahem- Bioweapon. I assume that is the prescribed treatment for all wig outs?¡±


    ¡°Recursive retraining, applied directly.¡± Says the Heavy Bioweapon.


    I nod. Thankful for Hygieia¡¯s unspeakable project and the gift of confidence.


    ¡°Are you assuming command of these martyrs?¡± I ask.


    He shrugs, ¡°I was always in command.¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± I whisper, quickly realizing this weapon is more than he appears. ¡°Well then Commander, I¡¯d like to treat you with respect befitting an officer, but it''s difficult to grant courtesy without a name.¡±


    He pantomimes taking a seat, an odd gesture. Odder still when he sits in image only. Butt resting at the top of an unsquished pillow, legs tensed and way over his toes keeping weight off the cushions.


    ¡°You may call me Richard.¡±


    ¡°A pleasure to meet you Richard, my name is Sable Yurten, Private of the Holy Singularity.¡±


    Helmet moves askew, cocking one head. ¡°Not even a Specialist? How quaint, and here I was thinking we were treating each other with dignity. Why lie to me? Everyone on Syrak has been flash trained, and would have obeyed our earlier orders completely. Yet not a single soldier within this bunker of yours follows my orders before yours. So what will it be?¡±


    I swallow. Our pleasant conversation is over. Which makes sense considering the corpse leaking blood across my boots. A sigh escapes. I¡¯m trapped for the second time today. Suitcase nukes are looking better by the second.


    ¡°Well Richard, I see you¡¯re not a fool. My name is Athena Finley, the forsaken child of flashtraining. I fought my way across Syrak and I intend on conquering the planet in the Singularity¡¯s name.¡±


    Richard laughs. ¡°Why? If the flashtraining failed why fight in the Singularity¡¯s name?¡±


    His quad barreled cannon clinks, as if loading a round. I raise an eyebrow.


    ¡°Shoot me before I can answer the question? You¡¯re a terrible inquisitor.¡±


    ¡°Gotta keep up appearances ya know, do things nobody expects from the inquisition. Shooting the innocent usually keeps people guessing.¡± He says.


    Aids lean away from the bioweapon, missing the obvious joke. Only widening my smile.


    ¡°The Singularity adopted me, figured I would stick with family.¡± I lie, interposing half truths of step siblings with calculated betrayal.


    Richard straightens, as if I¡¯ve made a deeply offensive joke.


    ¡°Where did your army come from?¡±


    ¡°A woman can¡¯t just share all her secrets now.¡± I wink at Richard, wondering where the hell his eyes are and hoping it¡¯s not in the two foot long codpiece. ¡°Just cause I¡¯ll win in the singularity¡¯s name does not mean I have any intention of demoting my Commander ass back down to Private. Make me a real offer and my fifty Juggernauts will join the fight on your side.¡± I say, smiling at his helmet.


    Before he speaks the 2nd LT opens his mouth and interrupts our revving banter. ¡°Fifty? You¡¯re still repairing the EMP damage! You don¡¯t have the manpower to build Juggernauts!¡±


    Richard rests one bloody hand on 2nd LT¡¯s shoulder, forever staining the greatcoat with experience.


    ¡°Recursive retraining has been applied.¡±


    Aids and officers repeat his words like some kind of mindless cult of brainless zombies. That settles it, flash training is worse than symbiotes, I''ll never again hesitate to infest my fellow Earthlings, for they are already gone, and infestation is only the first step to resurrecting their spirits.


    Hygieia, who''s been eavesdropping on the entire conversation through my eyes, chimes in. Thoughts mirroring my own.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Yeah¡­


    >Matriarch Hygieia: this is the creepiest bullshit


    >Matriarch Hygieia: glad youve come around to my side of things Thena


    >Terran Thena: I didn¡¯t realize it was this bad. Find a way to undo the flashtraining Hygieia. Please.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: yeah yeah


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hygieia-one-kenobi, you are my only hope


    >Matriarch Hygieia: same as yesterday


    >Terran Thena: You know I appreciate what you do.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: sure aint showing it


    I know the real reason she is being snippy, and leave it alone. We agreed to never discuss it, so we won¡¯t.


    ¡°Richard, let¡¯s go for a tour.¡± I say, pressing both palms against the table and rising. ¡°Just you and me.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget your driver.¡± Richard advises, already out the door.


    In moments Helen has us zipping through the tunnels, touring the facility in silence. Miles of bunker are covered, including the vaults, defensive atrium, and finally the foundry, never stopping, always skimming.


    ¡°Fifty Juggernauts, as promised.¡± I say, wondering if he can scan their internals.


    This is a foolish risk, but I¡¯ve led him through every sensor array and past every augmented Juggernaut twice over, hopefully their scans can tell us something about Kerrigan¡¯s condition and how to stabilize her, either chemically or genetically. At this point I¡¯ll accept either just to keep her alive.


    ¡°They are incomplete, but I trust in your ability to mobilize them, Miss Irregular. Just as I recognize that your words are hourable.¡± Richard extends his hand to shake, dried blood flaking off armored knuckles. Worse, there seems to be a fragment of skull with hair still attached, waving in the faint breeze of anti-grav.


    ¡°Uhm¡­ want a hanky for that?¡± I say, offering him mine.


    All dress uniforms come with them, frilly and pretentious. Like really ugly lace.


    ¡°Oh, right. My apologies.¡± Richard says, cleaning his murder weapon as if the act was not committed by him, but an alter ego.


    Awkward silence takes us for a moment. Broken when he places a hand on my shoulder.


    ¡°How is it that you stare down the barrel of a gun, and can look me in the eyes without terror weakening your heart. Are you a fool who does not comprehend death?¡±


    It¡¯s all I can do not to laugh, I¡¯m scared shitless, which is why we took precautions, like piloting a clone of myself. The mindless simulacra Hygieia cooked up in an attempt to regain her humanity.


    But that secret will never be spoken aloud.


    ¡°Oh, I can assure you, I find nothing more terrifying than a bioweapon in close proximity. But, that isn¡¯t a reason to cower and hide. If you decide to kill me, I¡¯ll die. No amount of shielding, tanks, infantry, or weaponry kept the Tulverians alive when Trinity came for them. But¡­ That soldier who hides in your shadow, why does she look to you for strength? Why would a soldier of any stripe seek you for protection unless there was some artifact of nobility within you?¡±


    Richard is quiet, head moving to scan the empty cryotubes before he calls for a halt. Helen glances at me, and I nod, piqued by the weapon¡¯s sudden request.


    ¡°She is like you. Irregular. One who remembers the time before-¡± Richard¡¯s words halt abruptly, as if cut off by some censor.


    In that one second the bioweapon¡¯s whole demeanor changes. A transformation so stark I would have believed in werewolves. Arms tense, shoulders ripple, and the grav sled seems to dip, as if a tremendous weight was placed beside me.


    Helen jerks, spine going ramrod straight, hand seeking the pulser currently mag locked to her reactor.


    Then, suddenly as it came, it¡¯s gone. Richard holds up a hand and snaps his fingers. The snap echoing with the weight of a submarine¡¯s implosion.


    ¡°Ahem. So unpleasant.¡± He says, back in his regular voice. ¡°My standing orders require summary execution for all of your kind, but I gain no satisfaction from violence. I am a shield, meant to protect lives, not a blade meant to vivisect mind and body.¡± Richard whispers, more to himself than me.


    I memorize every word, mentally storing the conversation for Alaea and Hygieia to replay in hopes of understanding this ¡®stable¡¯ bioweapon. Kerrigan deserves so much more.


    ¡°Ahem, my apologies. I¡¯ve noticed there is a distinct lack of AI cores within the bunker. How do you intend to report a conquered Technomancy without their compliance?¡± Richard asks.


    ¡°Report? We physically hold the bunker, the AI can¡¯t defend itself unless we support it. What else matters?¡±


    The bioweapon pinches his temples, finally returning my handkerchief.


    ¡°Each month the solarium allotment must be reported, the Novan¡¯s are a democracy of Artificial Intelligences, none of their soldiers count, only vehicles and AI cores, the hardware that operates as a brain. So long as the core is not under your control, the Singularity cannot claim this bunker. Making you a target for conquest.¡±


    It¡¯s my turn to shut up. Processing his words.


    ¡°So¡­ Until those vaults are cracked-¡±


    ¡°-I am your enemy.¡± Finishes Richard, coating himself in the yellow gold of solarium armor.

 Chapter 49 Frienemies?

    General Richard Antonio Ziusudra. The heaviest weapon known to mankind turns towards me, a pistol appearing in his hand.


    ¡°Take your threats and shove- uh- them-.¡± I snap, stuttering through a shivering lip.


    Rebellious words that are equally bluff.


    One hand catches Helen¡¯s, pinning it to the pulser¡¯s grip and trapping the gun with her armor.


    ¡°Watch your tone.¡± Richard warns.


    I hate it, but he is right. Death waits down the path of smartassness that I was walking.


    ¡°Those vaults aren¡¯t accessible to you either. For all your strength I doubt you could survive a mountain collapsing on you, and even if you did survive and have no need of oxygen, by your logic the AI would still be able to claim land! I¡¯m only following your bluffing lead.¡±


    Richard chuckles, a harsh crunching thing that is far more spinechilling than anything 1st LT ever did.


    ¡°What was your real name?¡±


    ¡°Athena Finley.¡±


    ¡°Ah, Athena, the goddess of wisdom. A good name, albeit one so many bearers fall short of. I find it infinitely pleasing to find one who may fulfil that promise. Would be a shame to kill you and every irregular within this bunker so,¡± He gives Helen a gentle push, daring her to draw the pulser. ¡°I¡¯ll offer you a compromise. Deliver the vaults to me, send your forces alongside us to the front, and live.¡±


    ¡°A compromise suggests you are giving something up.¡± I snap.


    He shrugs, such a human gesture from such an alien body. ¡°Maybe a part of me enjoys the killing.¡±


    My brow tightens, arms folding over my stomach.


    ¡°We are trying to rejoin the Singularity, I admit you have the power to compel obedience, between you on the inside and the million earthlings out there, your victory is assured, even if you withdraw and starve us out.¡± I say, hoping to plant a seed within his mind.


    With my warping ability a siege would be entirely in my favor, I could warp most of the army to Hygieia and buy time for her to fabricate our ticket home.


    ¡°Standing orders are to kill any irregulars. Those who break the flash training and show initiative are especially dangerous.¡±


    ¡°Why tell me something I¡¯ve already heard? Seems like a waste of time.¡± I say.


    Richard laughs again. ¡°Haha! I see no profit in fighting you at this time, only dead humans. There are many enemies out there,¡± He gestures across the mountains, towards the other factions, ¡°But each irregular limits our capacity to wage war. They- YOU are a self-inflicted casualty I am tasked with executing.¡±


    ¡°Like the Lieutenant.¡± I offer.


    ¡°Like the Lieutenant.¡± Richard confirms. ¡°I have witnessed a hundred thousand years of war. Endless fighting, more combat than all the humans on this planet combined. So let me be blunt irregular. Wearing two helmets was stupid. You¡¯ve left your gasmask connected to our lines, I¡¯ve seen and heard everything about your pocket army and the forces within this bunker. I could fight you, I could kill you. Both are within my ability to wage war.¡± He says, materializing his own melee weapon, it¡¯s like a mace, except four feet long and covered in steel teardrops that connect via their smallest apex to the rod.


    Upon the mace¡¯s appearance our grav sled begins to falter, clattering to the floor and hissing in protest of the abuse, like a thousand pounds were warped above it and came crashing down. Part of me screams at the raw danger beside me, yet I am safe, Richard does not need a hammer to kill me, not when a single finger would do.


    All the pieces to his compromise finally add up.


    ¡°The wig outs.¡± I say, eyes going wide. ¡°Dump them on me so you don¡¯t have to kill them?¡± The second I say those words I know it¡¯s the truth. ¡°Ah, shit. I¡¯m your asylum aren¡¯t I.¡±


    ¡°Quick on the uptake Goddess of wisdom. Executions murder more than morale, and as you noticed are messy. Each dead wig out provokes instability in my standing forces, exiling those soldiers to this bunker is an excellent way of maximizing my gains. Keeping my men focused.¡±


    His deal is incredibly shit. I¡¯m no psychiatric doctor! College was for an engineering degree and a minor in accounting, number crunching, bean counting, the complete opposite of soothing broken souls! The sum total of four billion draftees.


    Even as I protest the thought settles into a foregone conclusion.


    So many people.


    We could symbiote up an army.


    Those who are too far gone could become biomass, fueling everyone¡¯s return to Earth.


    Ew.


    I want to reject him, but certain death is the alternative.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Only the living may judge.


    Dead is dead.


    I sense a circular argument entering my mind, repeating itself ad infinitium, with each loop conjuring another solution to proposed problems. The Technomancy has mind wipe gear in the facility, same with flash training capabilities, maybe there is a way to heal those wiped out Earthlings.


    Richard is offering me a way to smuggle humans back to Earth.


    Shit shit shit!


    Richard knows I don¡¯t have a choice.


    ¡°Fine. We will be your asylum. Send the irregulars our way.¡± I say.


    The mace vanishes and the sled hops ten feet into the air, Helen slumps over the controls, wrestling the ship down to a steady height. I can sense her annoyance leaking out of reactor ports but she keeps silent. Not daring to annoy a bioweapon. Richard continues talking, feet never moving from the sled.


    ¡°Compassion is the most attractive quality a woman can have, tis also the most likely trait to get a soldier killed. I would caution against wearing an open heart Athena Finley.¡±


    I bite back a response. That¡¯s rich coming from the bioweapon who just offloaded his mandatory executions! Who exactly is dumping their dirty laundry on whom? Either way, Richard outmaneuvered me, I¡¯m not sure if he is full of shit, or the wisest man I''ll ever meet.


    ¡°Its not often that a bioweapon gives altruistic orders.¡± I say, returning the needle.


    He doesn¡¯t answer, remaining silent until we reach the ambassadorial lobby. Then turns to look towards the mountains.


    ¡°The Holiest Singularity thanks you for conquering the Novans and welcome you back into the fold Commander Finley of our newest division. Hmm, now what shall we call you? How about the 113th Unluckiest Irregulars, Oh, or the 777th Goddess¡¯ Guardians is free.¡± Richard offers.


    ¡°You¡¯re not funny Dick!¡±


    Nearby aids groan, expecting to be splattered with blood.


    Richard knocks on the codpiece, ¡°Dick? Must have left mine in the pod.¡±


    I can¡¯t help myself and giggle at the dumbest dad joke I¡¯ve ever heard.


    ¡°113th is fine, you can keep the cutesy petnames for your Field Marshal.¡± I say, taking a seat on the cushions.


    ¡°Very well, you¡¯ve been promoted to Major Finley, commanding officer of the 113th Syrean Irregulars, our transfer of personal shall begin immediately. Pursuant to that goal we shall leave a security detachment behind, starting with Sarah Green-¡±


    Her squeak is audible through her mask, so blatantly unsoldier-like I have to wonder about her mental fitness. Probably a weeping mess, one only a symbiote will fix. Unless she pulls a Helen and makes the symbiote all weepy and worthless.


    Richard continues as if he never heard her interruption.


    ¡°-You have one week before I expect a summary of standing forces. We are not equipped for mountain warfare, a trench is not a road, nor can you dig through stone with shovels. So your first mission is to create an egress, prove your wisdom and find a way through the mountains that we can march a million troopers through. Do not concern yourself with the last mile through the mountains, I shall be your speartip.¡±


    ¡°Yessir.¡± I say, uncertain how I feel about suddenly being put on homefront duty.


    Roaches can dig a tunnel easily enough, as can the super-laser-tank. It¡¯s actually a great drill¡­ Almost better than the Drakken laser drill.


    Mentally I stop, renaming our super-laser-tank to the Drakken laser Tank, my own special DT. Although this isn¡¯t for smashing mineral lines or hold positioning a ramp like a clever cunt.


    ¡°General Ziusudra, Juggernaut redesigns are coming shortly, permission to deploy experimental craft?¡±


    Richard cocks his head, entirely unreadable.


    ¡°Permission granted. I will not sideline those who wish to fight.¡± He says.


    I can hear the smile behind his words. On the verge of a laugh yet stoic. He beckons the remaining members of his team onto waiting grav sleds, mission accomplished.


    ¡°What about the Azhurai?¡±


    ¡°Oh them? They weren¡¯t the only ones hiding an army. Ha, those Conglomerate clowns were crazy, did you know they sent a hundred thousand constructs across the mountains? A hundred thousand! Bet they were trying to take the entire continent in one push. Too bad for them I showed up, dividing their forces in a series of pincer counterattacks along my brother and sister.¡± Richard laughs, a cackle more at home in a villain¡¯s jaw. ¡°Those solarium suckers think mere technology can win a war. Ha! We¡¯ll handle them in due time.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just going to ignore them?¡±


    Richard shrugs, his shoulder cannon bouncing off the ceiling.


    ¡°We can¡¯t push the issue. Not now. Maybe with a decade of shooting down their resupply ships we could starve em out, but the Collective¡¯s second wave should hit us soon. I need the manpower to defend against it. Besides, Azhurai tech is really fucking impressive. They¡¯ve recalled all golems to their spire-fortress. Currently those knocked off runts are linked into a shield. We¡¯ll besiege them, but breaking it is beyond our current offensive abilities, if we had nuclear weaponry then maybe we could crack that shield. But for now the battle over positioning is won, and only a logistical war remains unfought.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.¡± I growl.


    ¡°What do you want from me Athena?¡± Richard snarls, voice grumbling with enough energy to coat my eyelashes in solarium crystals.


    Golden eyelashes, what a kickass look! I blink, fluttering the golden needles together, which makes the lil buggers stick.


    ¡°Ah hell.¡± I murmur, teasing the crystals off with fingernails. ¡°Gold is a bit gaudy on me General Dick.¡±


    ¡°Idiot.¡± Richard mutters, doing something that dissolves the solarium into a flash of yellow. ¡°Don¡¯t trust the AI here, he only serves his own ends, but that would include shooting down Azhurai supplies, a century or two of that and negotiations may begin.¡± Richard says, signalling to move out.


    A century of siege warfare?! What the hell! NO! We¡¯re gonna break that bitch open like scrambled eggs.


    ¡°Very well General Sir.¡± Is all that my mouth says.


    >Terran Thena: No way are we waiting a century to crack the Azhurai base. I need ideas.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Siege-nauts first


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Tulverians second


    >Matriarch Hygieia: then we can frag the petting zoo


    I laugh, covering my face with both hands for several moments. Her joke isn¡¯t funny, but surviving a second bioweapon has me giddy. So stupidly giddy I can¡¯t frown when Sarah Green pulls off her mask and opens that damn slutty mouth of hers.


    ¡°Hey Thena, it''s been a while.¡± Says Savannah, my old roommate.


    My last memory involving her was listening to her say Whorely made better cookies.


    If I had been armed, I would have shot her right in those stupidly straight teeth.

 Chapter 50 Savannah My **** Sister, and Duran, and Samir

    ¡°Hey Bramate!¡± Savannah says, rushing forward, arms open.


    I palm her chest, meaning to stop this nightmare from engulfing me. She¡¯s always been too touchy feely and if she shrugged the flashtraining the first thing ole Savvy would do is find a pirate to plunder her booty. Even if that pirate had to be won in a game of poker and came with a free serving of space crabs.


    But this body isn¡¯t mine, Hygieia made it to survive Syrak-9¡¯s surface, in no way conforming to human limitations. My palm crushes the wind from her lungs, ragdolling the soldier back ten feet, her sudden flight ends on ambassadorial cushions, doing little for an already bruised ego. Tears roll down her cheeks, gasping for air as she curls into the fetal position.


    ¡°Oops.¡± I say, feeling like I just kicked a puppy.


    Not an annoying yappy purse dog, but a baby golden retriever who is now cowering under the pillows thinking he did something wrong.


    ¡°Uhm, don¡¯t touch me-¡± I say, wincing as the words bring tears to Savannah¡¯s eyes, weeping just as mom did when dad failed to come home. ¡°No way¡­ She¡¯d be related to dad, not mom.¡± I whisper, reaching for suit sensors and only finding my dapper uniform buttons. Made from solid gold, malleable between my fingers, unlike 24 karat alloys. Savannah may have been a hoe who thought Whorely¡¯s ¡®vegan¡¯ cookies tasted better than real chocolate chip cookies with actual sugar, but that only made her a foolish child. Not my enemy.


    I steer Hygieia¡¯s clone into the hallway and warp it out, soon taking its place in my TriThenar suit as I exit Red¡¯s laboratory with my one true self. Only to find Helen standing over Savannah, the blonde pinned under microtentacles as a spare symbiote wriggles free of armor.


    ¡°WHAT THE FUCK!¡± I Shout, voice magnified by suit speakers.


    She jerks upright, saluting and falling into attention, symbiote slipping back into her armor. Savannah staring at the vanishing worm as if hell itself is real.


    ¡°I leave for one second and you do pull this shit?! Helen, I¡¯m going to put a bullet in your brain then throw you down a recycler if you pull this shit again. Am I understood?¡±


    ¡°Yessir! My apologies sir.¡±


    I lower myself to her level, visor retracting until we see eye to eye.


    ¡°This is your last warning. Do not fuck up again Helen. That goes for you symbiotes as well. No reincarnations for any of you.¡±


    ¡°Sorry sir. It won¡¯t happen again sir!¡± Helen answers.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ I don¡¯t believe you.¡± I say, mentally tagging each symbiote and helen herself.


    They stiffen, understanding what the tag can do.


    ¡°As of this point in time, all symbiotes and Helen are barred from reincarnation. Die and you will be- oh what¡¯s the Collective term? Catalogued."


    ¡°Sorry Sir.¡± repeats Helen.


    ¡°Get out of my sight.¡±


    Worms retract, and Helen takes the order a bit too literally, cloaking as the parasites slither backwards into her. How those worms find escape routes out of power armor that is -supposedly- void rated and sealed for operation within vacuum is a horror I don¡¯t wish to know.


    ¡°Savannah¡­¡± I say, locking all sensors on her. Targeting reticles flash, planning a hundred new ways to kill her.


    Only for a blue reticle to conquer them one by one, marking Savannah as thirty five percent related to me, an odd figure, strongly implying she is the love child of my parent and another relative, an uncle- or aunt.


    ¡°God fucking damnit dad. You fucked moms sister?¡± I growl, towering over Savannah.


    As step-sisters go, there are fifty other women I would rather share blood with. Fingers itching to activate my launcher and put a canister of mustard gas through her jaw. Tragically, mustard gas has nothing to do with condiments and will certainly harm her more than a jar of grey poupon. She deserves better¡­


    ¡°Athena, thank you for not letting her- uhm, put that thing-¡± Tears break her voice, and she rolls over, sobbing into the svelte cushions. Hopefully we can find some cleaning bots, cause that¡¯s gonna leave some boogey stains. So gross.


    I pop open my armor, soon curling up behind my first step-sibling, black fingernails running through her hair while she balls into my lap.


    ¡°Hush now, step-sis. You¡¯ve got time to sleep.¡± I whisper, singing a melody to blowdry her tears.


    ¡°Look. I am not your roommate anymore, or a dude, and after Whorely rode Baz, trust is in short supply. No, scratch that, I¡¯m out of trust. You had to know.¡± I growl, voice more dangerous than I intend. ¡°I don¡¯t want anything from you. If kicking you out was possible, you¡¯d be out on the streets. But here on Syrak the streets glow with radiation, and killing you will bring me no joy.¡±


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    I¡¯m talking more to myself than her, working over the problem of what to do with her. Once upon a time we were friends, roommates close enough to share clothes. Part of my heart wishes to rekindle that, to protect Savannah and keep her in the lap of luxury, safe from all comers.


    If only she had told me about Bazzhole and Whorely.


    ¡°You should have told me.¡± I whisper. ¡°You didn¡¯t, that¡¯s not something we can ignore. So you have a choice, fight , or  go back into a cryotube until we reach Earth-¡±


    ¡°-Not the tube! Please Athena! We should have told you, I should have told you, but-¡± She bites her lower lip, rolling her jaw as if contemplating her words. ¡°They¡¯re siblings. You wouldn¡¯t believe us, hell I don¡¯t believe it! It¡¯s so, its so, they''re siblings! Like, what the fuck dude!¡±


    My chin tightens at her words, I¡¯m not a dude¡­ But this is Savannah. A girl drowning in an ocean of mud, war, and radiation. Just like I was. Within those azure orbs I picture myself, not in form, but as a lone Singularity trooper. Fury cools, replaced with annoyance at how right she is. The imaginary conversation plays out in my head, Savannah telling me how Baz was banging his sister behind my back.


    She¡¯s right, no way would I believe my boyfriend was bumping uglies with Ash, even now after undeniable evidence I still can¡¯t believe it. Riding an Ultralisk to my next college class is more believable.


    This is not a problem I can solve today.


    ¡°Helen, I¡¯m promoting you to lead recruiter. General Dick is sending us reinforcements like Savannah, sort through them, give them the option of a cryotube, infestation, or combat under their own willpower. Listen up, Do not, and I mean DO NOT, infest anyone without their consent.¡±


    ¡°Uh, sir¡­ Why give them the option at all?¡±


    ¡°Ask your host why. How often is she screaming inside your skull?¡±


    ¡°Oh, that stopped after the first three days, now she just does it about half the time.¡± Helen says.


    Visor snaps closed over my face, feet stomping all the way to Red¡¯s laboratory.


    ¡ª


    The Lab is unrecognizable since my last visit, all tubes stand empty, drained of fluids and occupants alike. Nothing but sterile white exists in the first room, from freshly scrubbed walls to sanitized robots standing in a line.


    ¡°Better.¡± I whisper, thankful Alaea and Hygieia took care of this.


    After Kerrigan, I¡¯m not certain my psyche could handle removing her clones and sorting them. My mouth dries as the inner sanctum swishes open, Red¡¯s personal laboratory and the last place I ever saw my friend.


    Heart expects terror, instead I find a kaleidoscope of green and purple hues, perpetuated by half activated lighting and what appears to be an enormous discoball with four children hanging from it, each pumping their legs like a swing to make the ball, or rather chrysalis, spin ever faster. Three Ereapers in full armor sing along to some inhuman cacophony of bells and drums, like fifty pigeons cooing into five plastic kazoos. Deeply unpleasant, and painfully catchy, like the song ¡®Friday¡¯ by Rebecca Black.


    ¡°What in the he-¡±


    ¡°-Boss! Just in time! Stay over there!¡± Quacks Emurine, head reaper.


    Helmet visor slides shut a second before he activates the reaper pack. Red contrails of flame ignite our disco party, blurring into glowing spheres as the other reapers join in, grabbing hold of tendrils and spinning them with the full force of three reapers.


    The four children scream in delight, clinging with all their might as the green disco ball begins to clench, tightening as the binding tendrils begin to unwind, green goop rains from the sky, splattering across my layers of shielding and rolling off like some rancid bird turd delivered express. I can only stand and gape at the nonsense in front of me. The lab, once sterile, has been stained green, somehow improving the aesthetics. Although, that might be a lack of tentacles.


    Until the disco ball pops. I can only describe it as playing in the rain, happily stomping away until you jump into an open manhole. Green blobs my entire shield, slumping away a few seconds later.


    Reapers and children go ballistic, launched to the far corners of the room where they safely splat into thick goo.


    ¡°That¡¯s how you stick a landing!¡± Shouts Emurine, caught upside down between two empty tubes.


    I barely hear him, too focused on the figure dropping from the chrysalis above. Nude, with huge muscles and an impressive jawline. With enough muscular definition I could swear it¡¯s Barker. Until the purple glowing eyes inform me otherwise. This is someone new.


    ¡°Oi! Duran! Find some pants to stuff that wanker!¡± Shouts Emurine, squelching his way across the room to activate cleaning bots.


    Duran. The name echoes in my mind. No way did birdbrain cook up that name on his own.


    >Terran Thena: Really? Duran? Which of you sold that idea to Birdbrain?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA


    >Executrix Alaea: It¡¯s dumb. But I laughed when she said it. Cmon, if we¡¯re cloning Kerrigan we can¡¯t exactly give them normal names like bill and jerry. Besides, they¡¯re twins. Duran is older and we named the other one Samir.


    An involuntary chuckle escapes my lips. I¡¯m such an idiot sometimes.


    >Terran Thena: You chucklefucks. I¡¯ll never be able to forget their names. Damn did those names stick.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: exactly


    >Matriarch Hygieia: so sticky


    >Matriarch Hygieia: perfect for twins which Alaea needed


    >Executrix Alaea: Sorta, having twins allowed me to identify the changes Red made, both mental and physical. Well, once I compared them to the scans of Richard, looks like I can put Kerrigan back to normal in a few days.


    My heart stops.


    >Terran Thena: A few days? Kerrigan will be healed in a few days?


    >Executrix Alaea: That is how long the process will take, assuming it is successful.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Zazathur designed it


    >Matriarch Hygieia: it will work


    >Matriarch Hygieia: we just tested it on Duran

 Chapter 51 Sales-Mommy Helen

    We spent a week rebuilding the base as hundreds of Singularity rejects arrived. Helen, mind reader that she was, sorted them easily, capturing a half dozen of her own ilk, Azhurai conglomerate infiltrators. They received symbiotes with no options for parole.


    Meanwhile a third of the irregulars opted for cryostasis, while another twenty seven percent opted to voluntarily fight for us without any symbiotic aid. Unsurprisingly these turned out to be soldiers from various militaries, spanning the range from coast guard repairmen to Ukrainian tank crews, and even a trio of Russian Spetznaz who somehow became Barker¡¯s favorite people, something about shovel throwing while doing backflips.


    Boy stuff I guess. Not sure if I should be worried about Barker¡¯s mental health, or if his canine side just loves people.


    But the remainder of our irregulars halts all thoughts. Nearly forty percent of the total opt into accepting a symbiote. A number so high it sees me kicking in the supply room door and halting the infestation process.


    ¡°Helen! Explain to me how this is possible?!¡± I shout.


    She whirls, saluting me in Singularity fashion. I return the salute, earning several gawks from the surrounding Earthlings.


    ¡°Oh shut up you ninnies, we¡¯ve all been flashtrained! Don¡¯t give me shit when you all know it means something else!¡± I snap, scowling onlookers into compliance.


    ¡°Hello boss!¡± Calls Helen, far too cheery for my liking.


    ¡°Forty percent of humans are opting for mind control? Quit grinning and explain. NOW.¡± I snap, about ready to stuff Helen into a cryotube.


    ¡°Sorry boss, it¡¯s just that Worm and I had a bet as to when you''d swing by, and I just won.¡± She says, intertwining our armored hands and guiding me out the door away from our guests. When we are a dozen paces away she turns, ¡°Human psychology is fascinatingly simple. You and Hygieia have given conflicting orders, so Worm and I had to figure out a solution. Hygieia wants all the biomass, or everyone to be infested, and you want everyone to survive.¡±


    A frown spreads across my face, already guessing where this is going.


    ¡°So you infest everyone because that is an acceptable compromise?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Not quite. Any murderers and rapists have to infested or turned into biomass, and with choices like that, they opt into symbiosis.¡± Helen is smiling now, as if possessing someone on pain of death is not forced infestation. ¡°That got us a few percentage swings, but the major change was explaining the perks of accepting a symbiote willingly! Sure we had to compromise a bit on what Symbiotes are allowed to do, kinda like a time share but for your brain.¡±


    Eyes narrow at her words, mouthing ¡®time share¡¯ in disbelief. ¡°That isn¡¯t what I meant¡­ Ah hell, give me the pitch.¡±


    Helen¡¯s visor comes up, reminding me just how attractive she is. Long eyelashes, perfectly shaped lips, and a complexion I cannot achieve even with most expensive Sephora. She opens the suit, revealing a low cut shirt that is in no way standard issue with several golden necklaces dripping down her neck, all complimenting the black velvet choker, or accenting the cleavage like V shaped ripples.


    She clasps hands together, her posture tantalizing. ¡°I¡¯m so glad you¡¯ve decided to visit Athena¡¯s Irregulars. First, let me just say how wonderful it is to see you here,¡± she began, bright and melodic. ¡°I know you lead busy lives and only wish to return home. You have responsibilities waiting there, families, careers, or maybe just the next Brandon Sanderson novel.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± she continues, ¡°Here on Syrak-9 there are only three ways to contribute to our voyage home. First, you can kill our enemies, once we conquer the planet everyone will be able to come and go freely. A goal Athena is working towards with all her might and we don¡¯t have to take the entire planet, just this continent. So a military takeover is the most direct way home. A second and far less popular path is death. You can die, as all biomass can be converted into supplies or weapons so others may achieve victory!¡±


    Helen pauses, waiting for my response.


    ¡°That¡¯s a shit pair of options. Don¡¯t tell me that works?!¡±


    ¡°Of course not! Everyone gets angry, but boss, it¡¯s about framing the question. If I pushed you up against the wall, jammed my knee between your legs and said ¡®Hey babe, want my worm?¡¯ no one would ever say yes! So when they object we- ahem.¡± She folds one arm over her chest, tapping her cheek with the other, as if digging deep into her memories to find a solution for me. ¡°You¡¯re right, those choices are terrible. But only because you feel unprepared. What if I told you that there is a way to enhance yourself¡ªyour body, your mind, your entire being¡ªwithout the endless struggle? Imagine waking up each morning feeling rested, fully healed, and confidently informed on every decision you make.¡±


    She gestures sideways, pulling a miniature cryotube from her belt, where shimmering liquid pulsed softly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own. ¡°This, my friends, is the next step in human evolution. A biological companion designed to support you in ways we never thought possible. It works with you, learns from you, helps you become the best version of yourself.¡±


    She picked up the vial, cradling it gently as she spoke. ¡°We call it a symbiote but don¡¯t let that word scare you. This isn¡¯t some cold, mechanical implant. This is organic, able to think and communicate on equal footing with ourselves, while understanding our biological needs. Sometimes even before you do.¡±


    ¡°Seriously, you¡¯re hitting them with a personal assistant pitch?¡± I gasp.


    ¡°Of course, who wants to be hungry all day? Or deal with kidney stones? A symbiote acts as a go between between you and your body. It optimizes your body, sharpens your thoughts, takes away the second-guessing that holds us back. Think of it like a trusted friend, always looking out for you. No more anxiety, no more hesitation just confidence, clarity, and efficiency.¡±


    She takes a half step forward, offering me a close up look at the symbiote for a second before pulling a picture out of her suit. Depicting an obese version of Helen with an absurd amount of pimples and greying hair. My mouth falls open, when did she cook up that picture?!


    ¡°Hard to believe I once looked like that. But it¡¯s all possible with symbiosis. A small reduction in facial oils, a little more willpower to keep you from eating that seventh slice of cake, you know the one, when you¡¯ve already had two delicious pieces and go in for a third only to find it¡¯s the least savory piece? With our enhancement you can become your best self.¡±


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    Between her words and ample lips, I¡¯m almost convinced.


    As if sensing my feelings Helen softens her expression, withdrawing half a pace and retracting the symbiote. Which is less than a third the size of a real one.


    ¡°I know¡ªit sounds too good to be true, and in a way, it is. These symbiotes come with a cost. Once a day, for roughly eight hours you will be required to work as a conscript for Athena¡¯s Irregulars. Similarly to the flashtraining these symbiotes will guide you through a full shift, increasing the possibility of returning our homecoming.¡± Helen half extends the symbiote, carefully slipping the picture of her back into the armor.


    Presenting the choice without being overly pushy. I need to be careful around this woman, she could sell ice to an eskimo, and mind reading only makes her more terrifying.


    ¡°And if they still refuse?¡±


    ¡°Who cares? We¡¯ve already convinced everyone who would accept one of us.¡± Helen laughs. ¡°Although some cowards still can¡¯t pick, so I have to give them the cryo option.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± I say, understanding the monster I¡¯ve created.


    Constraints were obeyed, every requirement fulfilled. I swallow, wondering what kind of bureaucratic penetration Helen could achieve back on earth.


    ¡°Uhm. Good Job Helen. Carry on.¡±


    ¡°Yessir!¡± Snaps Helen, getting back to work.


    For the first time on Syrak, I follow her lead, pulling up my inventory of forces and observing the new totals.


    98 / 144 Biomass (Hygieia¡¯s pool of available biomass)


    934 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress


    80 / 80 Mechanized armors


    35 / 50 Vehicles


    1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts


    12 Nanofactories


    1 MacroFactory (Foundry) Novan Primary Fabricator


    25 / 100 Project ¡®ODIN¡¯


    [+50 psychically viable biomass] (goes into a separate reservoir)


    +134 irregulars. ( 13 biomass, -45 cryo, 76 to base crew)


    Across the board my numbers are soaring, having three separate Me¡¯s working on the same forces has been full of happy little surprises. Like the twenty two Juggernauts now under my command, although Hygieia¡¯s burgeoning forces catch me off guard.


    >Terran Thena: Hey Hygieia, need to borrow some troops? I see you¡¯re cooking more soldiers rather than devoting everything into the ship. Did one of the other Matriarchs survive?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: not a chance


    >Matriarch Hygieia: probably


    >Matriarch Hygieia: crap


    >Matriarch Hygieia: I¡¯ll have Zazathur cook up some observational bioforms and send them out.


    >Terran Thena: You don¡¯t even have burrowed banelings? What kind of Zerg noob are you? Didn¡¯t you land with a whole ship full of zerglings? Shouldn¡¯t there be tens of thousands of them swarming all over you?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: stfu


    >Matriarch Hygieia: look. It¡¯s the first wave rebuild. Unlike you we are not wearing suits so acclimating to radiation and a new biosphere works¡­ uh¡­ differently


    >Matriarch Hygieia: okay, its super stupid.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: The collective plans for everything in the first wave to die from local diseases like the flu and common cold. We do our best to identify the different phages then develop suitable antibodies during the second wave. During a normal invasion advanced parties are sent, but we couldn¡¯t do that on this continent so Fleetmind just YOLO¡¯d our tails down here and let everything catch the flu.


    >Terran Thena: Are you seriously telling me all your zerg friends got the flu and died. Which is why we haven¡¯t seen any of them recently?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: well it sounds stupid when you put it like that!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hey bitch, did you forget alien microbes are TERRIFYING! If they can melt my limbs off, just think what space AIDS will do to a squishy human like you! Those gasmasks aren¡¯t for show.


    >Terran Thena: Okay¡­ Guess ¡®War of the Worlds¡¯ is totally accurate. Lol.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Oh, it gets better.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: The zerglings don¡¯t die for no reason, they all get sick, develop antibodies and then eject those antibodies into the commander¡¯s biopool.


    I pause to reason out what exactly she means, and piece a horror show together.


    >Terran Thena: You¡¯re sharing an immune system with all the lings?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Naw, they¡¯re kinda just bleeding out so I can live.


    >Terran Thena: Hold up. You brought those lings into the world, let them catch the flu, quite literally engaging in biological warfare with your babies, THEN BLENDED THEM INTO A FLU SHOT?!


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Mengsk would be so proud.


    Between Helen and Hygieia I¡¯m surrounded by psychopaths.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Everything my children have, I have too! Although, we had to fight off space AIDS¡­ Like ten thousand variations of it. Someone on Syrak is pumping out viral strains faster than I can make spinolings! Zazathur has a few ideas on how to alleviate most of them, but he needs these Infestor sort of things, they¡¯re kinda like- uh, chubbier, and mixed with a porcupine, which doesn¡¯t help us at all when troopers have particle blasters and Azhurai have energy cannons so I¡¯m baking an escort too. Spinolings, Predators like Hades, and some roaches.


    >Terran Thena: Blended babies. I¡¯m not even surprised at this point¡­ Mrs. Commie.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hey, I¡¯m never this much of a smartass to you!


    >Executrix Alaea: You sure about that?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: :dead:


    >Terran Thena: lol. But you have roaches, cmon girl, embrace the communism and share.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: YOU GOT THE LAST ONE SQUISHED!


    >Terran Thena: But¡­ Did he get better?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Not the point Athena! But yes i did recycle his biomass


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Got some larger projects cooking, things that might have a chance against shields. Which is super difficult, bout to start a crystal farming lab in the mountains to try and synthesis a molecular structure that defeats shielding. But plasma still punches through both sides of these. So I switched over to making hydralisks from the dollar bush.


    >Terran Thena: Ghetto hydralisks? Or hydras so cheap they couldn¡¯t afford the tree.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: First.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: They cost 2 biomass a piece and can¡¯t pierce armor so I had to start over.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Which is why I stalled ship construction a bit, roaches are living their best lives vomiting biomass everywhere, the ship is growing, but we need more biomass, a lot more. Thousands more!


    >Terran Thena: Yeah yeah, I¡¯m working on it.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Good. The collective has some big boy versions of a hydra I want to test. Way better at tunneling but more like an ultra in how they fight, lots of teeth and claws, not a whole lot of shooting. Plus an ultra sized price tag! The smallest one is 20 biomass! I¡¯ll be scraping fungi for weeks! Tastes awful.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Oh, before I forget, Vultures are done. Same with the Diamondback prototypes. Give it a spin.


    >Terran Thena: WHAT!


    >Executrix Alaea: Yeah, we are low on reactors so they are like 90% done, only has basic shielding. :smug-ass-smirk:


    >Terran Thena: I love you girls.


    >Terran Thena: Oh, can I get Ling1 and Linling2 reincarnated? I really like those two.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Already done. Just warp em back to you.

 Chapter 52 Tulveria HQ

    Sergeant Wormface sat atop one of two heavy vultures, currently parked ten miles away from the primary Azhurai Conglomerate fortress. Using his internal HUD screen as a display for the sensors of the vulture, he zoomed in, taking in the battlefield as a whole while some worms observed small parcels of the fight, each individual seamlessly adding their knowledge to the whole.


    Trenches sprawled around the circle of magnificent constructs. Like so many warding gargoyles they remained motionless in the face of the Singularity¡¯s vast arsenal. Three grinding days of siegecraft had led to this moment, yet the shield remained¡ªa translucent, humming dome that shimmered like liquid diamond under the constant barrage.


    Richard gave the final order, and dozens of officers complied in a staggered list of fire commands, starting with the most distant batteries and accounting for travel time. Within seconds fifty thousand guns turned the shield into a molten supernova. Thousands of artillery shells landed at once, shots landing in the staggered formation demanded by enemy shielding.


    Tens of thousands of troops fired as one, unleashing full auto barrages to scorch the air as they loosed continuous volleys against the barrier. Pulse cannons, their barrels glowing white-hot, sent lances of particle fire screaming toward the fortress¡¯s defenses. Anti tank cannons -tracked beasts of war dug up from century old bunkers- fired hypersonic slugs, each impact sending seismic shockwaves through the radioactive air.


    And still, the shield endured.


    Richard¡¯s shoulders slumped a micrometer lower with each passing second. ¡°By the void mother¡­¡± he muttered, watching the barrage continued, cycling between first and second volleys with mechanical precision. The artillery corps adjusted their calibrations, unleashing a synchronized bombardment to coincide with the massed infantry fire. Athena¡¯s promised Juggernauts fired their own barrage, three thousand high explosive missiles landing a half second behind the artillery strike like falling stars, slamming into the shield with apocalyptic force. Shockwaves knocked soldiers off their feet. While plumes of molten fire erupted from the impact zones.


    Yet when the dust cleared, the barrier still stood.


    Richard¡¯s voice crackled over the comms. "Begin phase four.¡±


    Colossal energy arrays whined to life, rising from Singularity and Technomancy Headquarters alike as weapons meant to counter orbital battlestations lobed thunderous doom across the continent. Power cores burned blue-hot, siphoning reactor energy into the blows.


    For a moment, the shield flickered. A whisper of victory passed through the ranks. Then, with a deafening reverberation, the energy surged back into place, fully recharged by the combined solarium reactors of golems. Silence fell. Even the relentless artillery paused, their munitions spent in vain.


    Wormface drank it in, passing the visual and sensory data to his Queen. Pulse pounding. Today was the most awe-inspiring display of military force he had ever witnessed.


    And it had amounted to nothing.


    A new transmission came through, clipped and measured. "All units, fall back. The shield is beyond our capacity to breach."


    They had come with every weapon in the arsenal, every strategy, every ounce of tactical brilliance. And still, the fortress remained untouchable.


    ¡ª


    ¡°Well shit. That was enough raw firepower to crack a whole damn fleet! Even the Death star would have melted!¡± I swear, grinding teeth. ¡°Screw this, take us to the Tulverian HQ, Splendeur should have reached it by now.¡±


    ¡°Yessir!¡± Calls Helen, kicking the hover tank¡¯s repulsor engine into gear.


    We rise a few feet then zip over the battlefield, crossing no man¡¯s land with no fear. Two vultures join us, the swifter jetbikes taking up defensive positions to our front and rear. We keep it to a scenic pace of a hundred and twenty miles per hour, broadcasting our transponder signals and active coms. Singularity forces read our scans and allow us to pass, most forces in full retreat.


    Richard took a careful count of each Azhurai golem, and calculated their output based on destroyed examples until we knew exactly how much firepower it would take to crack the shield. Based off the energy readings we took during the bombardment we exceeded that threshold by double, only to realize we underestimated the Azhurai¡¯s internal reactors.


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    >Terran Thena: Uhm, can you double check these numbers Alaea?


    >Executrix Alaea: Already did, you¡¯d need to bring ten times the firepower to drop that shield. Yeah, good fucking luck! That¡¯s the same as a constant orbital bombardment of a hundred Singularity frigates! Or twenty Novan Battlespheres. I¡¯m kinda impressed by those cheating bastards. Feels like they picked up their ball and went home. Antisocial cowards.


    >Terran Thena: The mission isn¡¯t bravery. It¡¯s economic dominance. Cowardly as that shield might be, it¡¯s peak performance. Girls, a larger conglomerate ship landed on Earth¡­


    >Executrix Alaea: We need to tech up. Odin is just the beginning. Think Science Vessels on their true scale, with Drakken laser drills instead of that stupid little underslung dish. Richard is cooperating with us fully and we have more solarium reactors than I can use, like Project Odin is fully powered, frankly it¡¯s overpowered.


    >Terran Thena: I¡¯m groaning and laughing at that awful pun. Is this Graughing?


    >Matriarch Hygieia: wtf is in my head. Overpowered graughing? Pffft.


    Our Diamondback slows, reaching the Tulverian HQ siege zone and slipping into the trenches below. They built near a river delta and deliberately redirected three rivers through their trenches, keeping several feet of running water at all times. Smooth riverrocks line the trenches here, and I¡¯m suddenly deeply curious on the details of Singularity tunneling tanks. How is it that we were able to knock out their outposts and lay siege?


    Scanners pick up singularity forces all around us, a classic encirclement though I notice our trenches are far shallower than expected, most likely a compromise between living perpetually waterlogged, and dying to plasma fire. Given a choice i¡¯d take the plasma round over having both feet rot off.


    Alerts flash across my screen. Wormface jams his throttle to max, shooting ahead speeds that would break any vertebrate¡¯s neck. Tulverian automated defenses lock onto the vulture and never fire.


    ¡°Just like Alaea said, they have no power. At least, not enough to shoot.¡± I radio.


    ¡°This feels like the worst trap I¡¯ve ever seen. How can a gun aim, establish a radar lock, and then not pull the trigger without power? Emergency power should have shut down the sensors so they wouldn¡¯t be accidentally discovered while vulnerable!¡± Wormface coms, circling back and scanning the gun emplacement thoroghly before catching up to us.


    We arrive at Tulverian HQ and find Splendeur, his black scaled shield bearer, and six Tulverians, all prime examples of carnivorous lizard warriors with fearsome bone crests scraping the sky and three inch claws protruding from once timid fingers. Even their jaws have bulged, with a row of teeth now jutting from their maws like coastal breakers.


    ¡®Why are the iguanas looking more like velociraptors?¡¯ I ask the Swarm.


    ¡®Biological adaptation. Their bath removed all radiation and the small numbers encouraged a second tier of mutation. These ones are far stronger, although it seems to be a dead end for them. They¡¯ll become a bit larger but can no longer differentiate into other Tulverian bioforms. A crude form of evolution.¡¯ Wormface answers.


    Truth be told, I find the feature incredibly intriguing. Similarly to how one would view evolving an SCV into a warhound. Logical, confusing, and entirely how to solve widow memes. Those damn one shot wonders that get flown into your mineral line and explode with the force of a nuclear warhead, only to fly off in a medivac.


    I pop the hatch, splashing down into three feet of water. Shields push the water away, while my armor¡¯s extra heavy reactor mass keeps me from sinking.


    ¡°Oh, zat is impressive shielding commander.¡± Splendeur says, looking us up and down.


    Those eyes speak to my sensibilities, flicking from visors to shielding, to the railguns and pulsers in our hands. We¡¯ve traded our old technician armor for the good shit. Black combat armor with shielding covers all my troopers, except for Helen who is still in her cloaking tech suit. I¡¯ve considered rebuilding the cloak, but there are never enough fabrication cycles available, not when a cloaking device takes weeks to cook. At this point I¡¯ve got our return to earth penciled into the schedule before I can make a sort of advanced physics lab to cook cloaking devices on the regular.


    ¡°Alright General, let¡¯s reclaim your base.¡±


    ¡°Gladly!¡± Splendeur shouts, before hooting in his native tongue.


    The blast doors slide open, somehow avoiding any disturbance in the water as our alliance enters Tulverian HQ.


    ¡®Hey Helen, what conditions will trigger Splendeur¡¯s betrayal?¡¯


    ¡®The good general isn¡¯t a general at all. He is a translation assistant. Before the bioweapons hit he was fifty fourth in line for command. So if one of his superiors survived, or he can obtain- uhm¡­ the word doesn¡¯t translate well, but it¡¯s the iguana version of a Matriarch I guess. A breeder maybe? Yeah, a breeding sow. If one of them are present he can still wage war.¡¯


    Great, if Splendeur¡¯s babymoma is alive he¡¯ll shoot us in the back. Of course that¡¯s how it is.