>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.

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

  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.

  1 / 11 Biomass (Hygieia’s pool of available biomass)

  0 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress

  5 / 13 Mechanized

  1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts

  2 Nanofactories

  24 Biomass in supply bunker

  Lots of ling corpses, and 11 troopers…