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.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  ‘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.

  —(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.

  20 / 25 Biomass (Hygieia’s pool of available biomass)

  734 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress (biomass from Tulverian ambush has been transported back to Hygieia)

  15 / 70 Mechanized [+6 combat suits (3 of 4 elite guards, 2 techs)]

  1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts

  2 Nanofactories

  1 MacroFactory (Foundry)

  -4 lings

  -1 biomass for Helen’s regeneration

  +6 reapers on the field