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.

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

  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.

  —

  -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.

  66 / 80 Biomass (Hygieia cooked up some new bioforms)

  734 / 2000 Courier Ship Progress

  52 / 80 Powered Armors (twelve nanofactories are working together)

  25 / 65 Mechanized Units (Welcome to Cooking with Juggernauts)

  1 / 1 Protochronian Artefacts (Alaea’s warp engine)

  12 Nanofactories

  1 MacroFactory (Foundry) Novan Primary Fabricator

  15 / 100 Project ‘ODIN’ (Alaea found some cycles in the Factory)