6 YEARS AGO

"Incoming Fire! Impact imminent on our port flank!"

Chimera's warning sliced through Vylaas's consciousness a split second before the impact rocked Asklepios-Two. The ship bucked violently, throwing him against his restraints as the cockpit flashed with warning indicators.

"Damage report," Vylaas demanded, hands dancing across the neural interface as he fought to stabilize their trajectory.

"Armor compromised on decks three through five," Chimera responded, her digital voice remaining calm despite the urgency. "Energy field bleed-over compensating, but structural integrity falling to eighty-three percent."

The comms crackled. "Engineering to bridge," Thorne's voice cut through, strained and clipped. "I'm diverting auxiliary power to reinforce port shields. Need thirty seconds to reroute the couplings."

Another voice broke through the channel. "Triage to bridge." Helena Reeves's voice was tight with controlled tension. "Heavy impacts down here, Vylaas. We need to reach grid delta-seven immediately. Reports coming in of critical casualties requiring immediate extraction."

Vylaas's jaw tightened. "Chimera, initiate evasive pattern epsilon. Target: grid delta-seven."

"Acknowledged. Calculating optimal approach. ETA forty-seven seconds. Warning: detecting multiple anti-air targeting solutions locking onto our position."

The ship lurched sharply, diving and weaving through the turbulent airspace. Vylaas didn't try to override the maneuvers; over the last two years of combat operations, he'd learned to trust Chimera's reflexes far more than his own. The symbiote had become an extension of the ship itself, navigating with a precision no human pilot could match.

"Shield bleed stabilized!" Thorne reported. "Had to reroute power from secondary life support, but triage functionality is minimally impacted."

"Confirmed," Reeves added immediately. "Triage systems operating at nominal levels. We can manage."

"Acknowledged," Vylaas responded, gripping the command console as the ship executed another stomach-churning roll. "Turbulence is unavoidable. Priority is reaching those wounded and keeping our shields up. Prepare for heavy casualties."

He switched to an open comm channel. "Asklepios-Two to delta-seven survivors. Anyone down there, report in."

Static crackled for three long seconds before a weak, garbled voice broke through. "...heavy casualties... command structure gone... please... need immediate evac..."

"Hold position," Vylaas responded. "Asklepios inbound. ETA forty seconds. Prepare wounded for immediate extraction."

"...thank the gods..." The relief in the soldier's voice was palpable even through the distortion.

Vylaas turned his attention to the ship's systems, checking the medical readouts as they hurtled through enemy airspace. "Chimera, pre-charge med-bay regeneration units. Full capacity."

"Regeneration units charging. Capacity at eighty-seven percent and rising."

On the secondary display, Reeves was monitoring incoming sensor data from delta-seven. Her expression grew increasingly grim as the readings updated.

"Multiple critical life signs detected," she reported. "Looks like a lot of shrapnel damage." She looked up from her console, eyes hard with determination. "We'll need to implement aggressive triage protocols the moment we touch down."

"Every second counts," Vylaas agreed. "Chimera, prepare for hard landing. Position starboard side toward enemy fire, shields at maximum. Deploy triage drones the moment we touch down."

"Acknowledged. Confirming drone deployment protocol with Thorne."

"Drones prepped and ready," Thorne responded instantly. "Initiating landing strut sequence now."

The Asklepios-Two descended toward grid delta-seven at breakneck speed, bleeding off velocity in the final seconds as its landing thrusters fired. The impact was brutal—far from the gentle landings of peacetime transports—but the reinforced shock absorbers Thorne had installed absorbed the worst of it.

"Drones deploying now," Chimera announced. "Scanning for casualties."

Vylaas unstrapped from his command chair, armor flowing around him as he moved toward the exit ramp. "Medical bays three through seven, prep for incoming. All trauma teams on standby."

The ramp hissed open, and Vylaas stepped out into hell.

Grid delta-seven had once been a forward operating base—a cluster of prefabricated structures anchored to a strategic ridge overlooking a vast plain. Now it was a smoking ruin. Artillery fire had reduced most of the structures to twisted metal and shattered concrete. Craters pockmarked the ground like festering wounds. The air reeked of cordite, burnt flesh, and the ozone tang of energy weapons discharge.

Through the chaos, the triage drones moved with swift precision, their sensor arrays identifying the living among the dead. Vylaas followed their lead, his armor shifting to enhance his strength and speed as he navigated the battlefield.

A soldier lay pinned beneath fallen debris, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes widened as Vylaas approached.

"Bastion," he gasped, using Vylaas's field designation rather than his royal title. "They came out of nowhere... Tanks... infantry behind them..."

"Save your strength," Vylaas instructed, kneeling beside the wounded man. Chimera extended tendrils from his armor, analyzing the injuries as Vylaas carefully lifted the debris. "Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, punctured lung."

Vylaas worked swiftly, administering emergency nano-meds that would stabilize the soldier until he could be transported to the ship. One of the drones hovered nearby, extending a stasis field that would slow the progression of the injuries.

"We'll get you out of here," Vylaas promised, signaling the drone to transport the wounded man back to the ship.

He moved deeper into the ruined base, following the signals from his enhanced sensors. A narrow trench had been dug as a last-ditch defensive position, and it was here that Vylaas found the worst of the casualties. Three soldiers, barely alive, lay among a dozen dead comrades.

A woman with an abdominal wound that exposed internal organs, somehow still conscious, clutching a blood-soaked pressure bandage to her midsection. An older veteran missing his left arm below the elbow, the cauterized stump evidence of a last-ditch field amputation. A young soldier half-buried under collapsed trench supports, his lower body crushed but vital signs somehow still registering.

"Reeves," Vylaas called through the comm. "Prep bays two, four, and seven. I need Trauma Team One down here, now."

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"On it," Reeves replied without hesitation. "Bays prepping, rerouting power to regen tanks. Team mobilizing."

Vylaas moved quickly among the wounded, Chimera extending multiple tendrils to administer emergency care simultaneously. The symbiote had evolved dramatically over the years, developing specialized medical capabilities that complemented Vylaas's own Restoration affinity.

"Chimera, status of the battlefield?" Vylaas asked as he worked to stabilize the woman's abdominal wound.

"Chaotic. Enemy armor column approaching from the east. Range five hundred meters and closing. Recommend immediate extraction of viable casualties."

Thorne's voice cut through the comm. "Shields are buckling, Vylaas! We can't withstand sustained tank fire. You need to get back here!"

"Critical shield status," Reeves added urgently. "Med-bay exposure imminent if we take another direct hit."

Probability of successful extraction while maintaining shield integrity: 18.4%, Chimera calculated privately through their neural link. Tactical withdrawal recommended.

Vylaas looked at the wounded soldiers, then out toward the approaching enemy forces. Flashes of artillery fire illuminated the horizon as tank shells arced toward their position. In the distance, he could see the silhouettes of mechanized infantry carriers disgorging troops.

What are we even fighting for? The thought slipped unbidden through his mind. Decades of war, millions dead, and for what? Territory? Resources? Pride?

"No," he said aloud, answering both his own thoughts and the recommendations of his team. "Chimera, maximize shields on the eastern approach and maintain point defense grid. I need two minutes."

Shield collapse probability exceeds 82% under sustained fire, Chimera protested through their link.

"Then we've got an 18% chance of success," Vylaas replied grimly. "I'll take those odds."

Thorne's voice came through the comm, frantic now. "I'm diverting all non-essential power to the shields! Life support at minimal levels, lights are going to flicker, but I'll buy you what I can!"

"That's all I need," Vylaas responded, already moving to position himself between the approaching enemy forces and the wounded. "I'm not leaving them behind."

Vylaas stepped beyond the makeshift barricades, each footstep deliberate as he positioned himself between the approaching enemy forces and the wounded soldiers behind him. The broken ground crunched beneath his boots. Ahead, the horizon trembled with the advance of Raxian armor—tank treads churning earth, infantry carriers disgorging troops in practiced formation.

"Sir, you can't—" a voice called from behind.

"Get everyone on those transport drones," Vylaas ordered without turning. "Thorne, status on those shields?"

"Holding at thirty-four percent," Thorne reported through the comm. "Whatever you're planning, do it fast."

Vylaas reached deep within himself, drawing on both his training and Chimera's capabilities. The symbiote responded immediately, extending his perception of the battlefield. He could feel the vibrations of the approaching tanks, sense the trajectory of incoming fire.

The first shells arced through the air, their whistling descent a promise of death. Vylaas raised both hands, focusing his will through Chimera's augmentation. Space itself seemed to shudder as he crafted a barrier—not solid like conventional shields, but a distortion of spatial relationships. The incoming shells struck the invisible field and veered off course, detonating harmlessly to either side.

Spatial manipulation at these distances requires significant energy expenditure, Chimera warned through their neural link. Recommend conservation.

"Noted," Vylaas muttered, switching tactics.

When the next volley came, he used Force Manipulation instead. His hands traced complex patterns, redirecting the momentum of projectiles with surgical precision. A tank shell that would have struck the medical evacuation zone curved upward, exploding in the air like crude fireworks.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. The strain of maintaining such control pressed against his temples like a vice.

The infantry line advanced, energy weapons flaring to life. Vylaas planted his feet, creating a cascading series of force barriers—translucent, rippling shields that shattered under the barrage, only to reveal more scales of force underneath. Each impact sent vibrations through his body. Pain flared along his nerve endings as Chimera redistributed the energy.

"Bastion, we can't hold this position much longer," Reeves reported urgently. "First wave of critical patients secured. Need two more minutes for the remaining casualties."

A Raxian tank commander, recognizing Vylaas as the source of the defensive measures, redirected fire. Multiple cannons aligned, their combined firepower concentrated on a single point.

Vylaas felt the attack coming. He couldn't dodge—not with wounded behind him. Instead, he split his focus, creating multiple layered defenses. The first layer would diffuse the energy, the second redirect momentum, the third absorb what remained.

He pulled deep from his reserves, feeling an aether crystal in the armor over his right arm shatter as it was catastrophically overdrawn.

The impact struck like a hammer against his consciousness. His knees buckled. Blood trickled from his nose.

Vylaas pushed himself upright, refusing to yield. He manipulated space again, creating a pocket dimension that briefly confused the Raxian targeting systems. It wouldn't last long, but every second meant another wounded soldier secured.

"Vylaas, damnit!" Reeves again. "We're nearly done, you have to get back here now!"

Behind him, the drones were working efficiently, lifting the wounded into stasis fields and ferrying them back to the ship. The woman with the abdominal wound was already aboard, the veteran with the missing arm close behind. Only the young soldier trapped under debris remained.

Vylaas sprinted back to the trench, energy bolts sizzling past him as enemy infantry found his range. His armor absorbed a hit that would have dropped an unprotected soldier, the impact sending warnings flashing across his HUD.

Armor integrity compromised at junction 7-B, Chimera reported. Regenerating, but efficacy reduced by 22%.

The young soldier looked up with pain-clouded eyes as Vylaas reached him. "Leave me," he whispered. "Save yourself."

"Not an option," Vylaas replied, Chimera flowing from his hands to analyze the debris pinning the soldier. With a surge of enhanced strength, he lifted the collapsed trench support, allowing the final drone to slip in and secure the wounded man.

"Critical shield integrity!" Chimera announced aloud this time, the urgency breaking through its usually controlled demeanor. "Failure in ten seconds!"

Vylaas turned to see the last drone lifting off with its precious cargo, already halfway to the ship.

"Now!" he shouted. "We're done here!"

He sprinted toward the ship as the shields flickered visibly, their energy matrix destabilizing under the continuous barrage. The ramp was still down, and Reeves stood at its edge, medical kit in hand but eyes wild with urgency.

"Move!" she screamed, gesturing frantically.

A tank shell detonated just as Vylaas reached the ramp, the shockwave lifting him off his feet and flinging him forward. Reeves caught him—or rather, was knocked backward by his armored form—and they tumbled into the ship as the ramp began closing.

"Go! Go! Go!" Thorne's voice shouted over the comm.

The engines roared to life, and Asklepios-Two lurched upward, accelerating hard enough to press them all into the deck plating. Through the closing ramp, Vylaas caught one last glimpse of grid delta-seven, soon to be completely overrun by enemy forces.

Then they were airborne, climbing rapidly through enemy airspace as the point defense systems worked overtime to intercept incoming fire. Vylaas lay on his back, armor reconfiguring to its standard form as he stared at the ceiling. Every muscle ached, and the neural feedback from damaged sections of his suit throbbed through his consciousness.

"Shield integrity critical but stabilizing," Chimera reported. "Structural damage to decks four and five, but hulls remain intact. Plotting course to Beta-Seven Medical Station."

"Shields are barely holding," Thorne added, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "But we're clear of enemy targeting range. That was too damn close, Vylaas."

"Agreed," Vylaas replied quietly. "But we got them out."

He pushed himself up, wincing at the strain, and made his way toward the medical bay. Through the viewports, he could see the battlefield receding below them, reduced to nothing more than distant flashes of light and columns of smoke. Another skirmish in an endless war. Another handful of lives saved amid thousands lost.

"Take us home, Chimera," he ordered, a flicker of grim satisfaction cutting through his exhaustion. "We've got wounded to treat."