-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.