Southern Hemisphere
Sector 43
Outpost Rokash
CT-8892 marched across the outer perimeter of Outpost Rokash-12, his mag boots clanking softly against the reinforced alloy plating of the facility’s exterior defences. The outpost sat on a vast, barren expanse of mineral-rich lunar terrain. It was one of the few remaining strategic points still under full clone control.
“You ever wonder why they bother reinforcing these walls?” CT-1124 muttered through his helmet’s comms. He carried his plasma rifle loosely, scanning the dark horizon. “I mean, they always break through anyway. Feels pointless.”
“Protocol, brother,” CT-8892 responded, checking his HUD for any anomalies. “Chain of command tells us to fortify, so we fortify.”
“Yeah, well, command ain't the ones getting ripped apart when those things burst through.” CT-1124 sighed. “I swear, if my rifle jams again I’m using my fists. Quartermaster keeps saying we’re getting new gear, but it’s the same thing recycled every cycle.”
CT-5598 chuckled over the radio. “Tell that to the logistics AI. I think it’s got a sense of humour. Gave me a sidearm with no power cell last week. ‘Operational efficiency’ my ass.”
They walked in silence for a while, their visors scanning the lifeless horizon. Rokash-12 was one of the oldest outposts since the invasion that had its numbers reduced and diverted North. The tension was ever present since the chaos in the North, there was looming fear of when—not if—the BCUs would come here.
CT-8892 tapped his comms. “Patrol two, status check.”
Silence.
He tried again. “Patrol two, this is CT-8892. Do you copy?”
“Maybe their comms are fried,” CT-1124 suggested. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I'll check another patrol,” CT-8892 muttered, switching channels. “Patrol three, status check.”
More silence.
CT-8892 frowned and adjusted his comm frequency. “Outpost Command, this is CT-8892. I think we’ve got a comms malfunction. Patrols aren’t responding.”
Static buzzed in his ear before the operator’s voice came through. “Acknowledged, 8892. We’ll run diagnostics. Hold the position and keep eyes on the perimeter.”
CT-8892 looked at his squad mates. “Something’s wrong.”
Before anyone could respond, the ground beneath them shook violently. An explosion erupted from the west, a massive shockwave sending dust and debris into the airless void. Alarms flared across every HUD as Outpost Rokash-12 was hit from long range.
“What the hell was that?!” CT-1124 shouted, gripping his rifle.
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“Missile strike? Kinetic bombardment?” CT-5598 called out, ducking behind a supply crate. “No warning?!”
Another explosion ripped through the outpost's southern wall, sending shattered alloy plating into the blackness of the void. Anti-air turrets turned to slag as a series of distant flashes indicated incoming artillery. The outpost was under siege.
“Sector Command, we are taking heavy fire!” CT-8892 yelled into his comms, moving to cover. “Unknown projectile origin outpost under siege!”
Static. Then a panicked voice. “This is Sector Command—multiple impacts detected! We have unidentified hostiles moving in from multiple vectors! Defences are—”
Another explosion. Comms cut.
CT-1124 switched to squad comms. “8892! I’ve got movement—northwest! I don’t know what I’m looking at, but there are thousands of them!”
CT-8892 turned, activating his visor’s enhanced optics. A wall of movement rushed across the rocky horizon, a seething mass of creatures. Some were massive, hulking behemoths covered in thick armour plating moving on six legs, while others scuttled forward on four limbs, moving rapidly on the lunar surface.
Among them, suicide BCUs lead the charge forward, meeting only minimal resistance from outpost turrets.
“It's like a living tsunami,” CT-5598 breathed. “They’ve got new forms. Some of these we’ve never seen before.”
Then the next wave of explosions roared through Rokash-12 as the largest BCUs fired their projectiles.
The barracks collapsed in a violent eruption, sending clone bodies into the zero-G void. The vehicle depot detonated, sending burning husks of transports spiralling into the blackness. Combat drones struggled to take flight, their bodies damaged in the initial attack.
“All units! Defensive formations now!” CT-8892 bellowed. “Hold the line! We do not retreat!”
Plasma fire lit up the battlefield as the first wave of BCUs crashed into the base’s remaining walls. Their nightmare had just begun.
---
Northern Hemisphere
Sector 12
Containment Zone
A slow-moving procession of armoured hauliers, drone carriers, and mobile repair platforms moved across the cratered landscape. The vast emptiness of the moon stretched in every direction, its mineral-rich plains glittering under the distant light of the sun. There was no atmosphere here only the cold void and the deep silence of space, broken only by radio chatter and the mechanical hum of engines.
Inside Hauler CT-7892, a dozen clone troopers sat strapped into their harnesses, gripping their weapons as the convoy rumbled forward. Unlike the frontline forces, the logistics corps rarely saw battle. They were the lifeline, hauling ammo, power cores, rations, and medical supplies to units desperately holding out against the overwhelming BCU onslaught.
CT-5568, a veteran of the first engagement with a deep scar running across his helmet, tapped his armoured fingers against the bulkhead. “I hate this,” he muttered over the squad comms. “Being sent out here just to haul crates when our brothers are dying.”
CT-9920, his closest friend, sighed. “Supplies keep them alive. No ammo, no fight. We’re just as important as frontline units.”
CT-7703, younger and filled with anger, shook his head. “That’s bullshit. I’d rather be killing BCUs than babysitting cargo. Damn things drove my entire batch-brood insane.”
“We’ll get our chance,” CT-8891 muttered, tightening his grip on his rifle. “Sooner than you think.”
The lead hauler’s sensors pinged an anomaly. Something fast-moving was closing in from above.
“Command, this is Convoy Nathak-29. We have incoming signatures. No known friendly air support in the area. Confirm identity.”
There was a long pause. Then came the response:
“Nathak-29, get your weapons hot. You’re about to get hit.”
The void was illuminated with red with missile trails.
The first explosion ripped through the lead haulier, tearing it apart in a violent, silent burst of fire. The lack of atmosphere meant there was no sound only the deafening shockwaves through their suit radios and the violent tremors that shook the ground.
“AMBUSH! AMBUSH!” CT-5568 screamed, unstrapping from his seat as the haulier lurched sideways. Outside, debris spun wildly in zero-G, bodies floating lifelessly as their suits ruptured.
A new variant of BCU had arrived.
The creatures were large, elongated, and covered in hardened exoskeletal plating. They moved faster than any of the BCUs they had ever encountered.
The surviving clones scrambled to man AA turrets, rail guns, and plasma batteries mounted on the supply vehicles. They fired wildly into the void, trying to lock onto the fast-moving BCUs diving from above.
CT-9920 shouted, “Shoot the pests down! Don't let them get another volley off!”
But they adapted. Their armoured plating cracked open to reveal more thrusters, dodging incoming fire with unnatural agility.
More missiles rained down, turning hauliers into fireballs of debris and shrapnel.
CT-7703 launched a guided missile at one of the creatures. Direct hit. The BCU exploded in a cloud of flesh and chitin.
For a moment, it seemed like they could hold as their concentrated fire killed and wounded a few more. Then the injured creatures dove into the convoy, sacrificing themselves in suicide attacks.
One by one, the hauliers were reduced to burning wrecks. The convoy was in chaos—clones fighting in zero-G, dodging missile barrages, firing at incoming BCUs while their brothers were torn apart.
CT-5568’s suit was breached. His air hissed out into the void, and his vision blurred. He saw CT-9920 get pierced by a bone dart and impaled midair before being ripped apart by an explosion.
CT-7703 was still firing his rifle, screaming over the radio as his HUD flashed red with critical warnings.
“WE CAN STILL FIGHT! HOLD THE LINE! HOLD—”
A missile struck his position.
The last haulier detonated. The once-mighty logistics convoy was now nothing but floating wreckage, charred clone bodies, and drifting supplies spilling across the barren moon.
The BCUs hovered silently above the battlefield, their eyes tracking the wreckage and debris field for survivors. The attack was over. There was nothing left.
A final transmission crackled through command channels before fading into static:
“Convoy Nathak-29… lost.”