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.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  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–”

  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