The vibrations hadn't stopped for hours. The enemy’s excavation machines bored deeper into the crust, their drills pounding relentlessly without rest. Each strike sent subtle tremors through the tunnels, rattling even the fortified mid-level chambers.

Their machines were never alone. Clone soldiers guarded the excavation site in tight formations, flanked by aerial drones hovering like vultures over dead stone. I let them push further, deeper into the abandoned upper layers. My drones pulled back in silence, melting away like shadows into the lower tunnels.

Through the hive’s network, I observed it all. A constant feed of data poured in from the intelligence sub-mind troop positions, machine outputs, and shifting defences. The war sub-mind whispered back, presenting calculated responses and countermeasures.

The conclusion was clear, time worked against me. If the excavation continued unchecked, they would breach the mid-levels in days.

I acted swiftly. Burrowers were redirected to encircle their dig site, weaving silent paths beneath their feet. The tunnels formed a layered web, reinforced gradually to avoid disturbing the enemy’s armoured patrols. It was delicate work—one misstep and their attention would shift downward. But if the plan succeeded, the strike would come from two fronts.

The first blow would collapse the tunnels they excavated, swallowing their machines and soldiers whole. Dazed and disoriented, their surface forces would scramble to respond. In those critical moments, the first wave of suicide drones would strike, targeting any surviving excavation equipment. A second wave lingered on standby, prepared to finish whatever remained.

Any survivors buried beneath the rubble would be extracted swiftly. My drones would carve them out like marrow from bone—those still breathing sent to containment pods, while the dead were repurposed. Nothing would be wasted.

Time was thin. The burrowers had already begun their delicate task, but it would take seven to eight days to complete the encirclement. Until then, I planned contingencies. There were no guarantees the assault would succeed. The south still lay far beyond reach, and the enemy’s forces grew heavier by the day.

Surface movement remained a last resort—a desperation gambit. If I had no choice, I could strip down what remained of the hive, releasing swarms of scouts to scatter across the surface in all directions. The rest would form a final vanguard, striking at the enemy’s core in a suicidal assault. A last stand to defend sanctuary.

Scouts were already pushing south, far from the current battlefield. Some probed for the knowledge cache that the rogue drone held, while others searched deeper south scouting any crevice, crater, and ravine they found, looking for any undiscovered lava tubes.

Digging directly south would take a century at minimum, even without constant harassment from enemy forces. Even with newer, more efficient burrower variants, the task bordered on impossible. These were the moments I lamented waking beneath this moon’s desolate crust.

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If I had risen on Imreth, I could have reshaped the war. With a living atmosphere, I would have unleashed drones by the millions, swarming their machines in tides thick enough to blot out the sky. If Project Parasite ever succeeded, I could seed the planet’s surface, spreading my influence like roots across the planet.

But fantasies of distant worlds meant nothing here. This was reality a barren moon where silence was the only constant, and war was fought beneath stone.

Days slipped by as burrowers dug in relentless silence. Drone numbers swelled, replenished in preparation for the strike. Escape routes were mapped and remapped, but no clear path emerged. The enemy dug just as fiercely, their machines carving deeper trenches into the rock, unwavering in their pursuit.

There were skirmishes—small incursions into the upper tunnels as scouting teams probed further. They found nothing but hollow corridors and faint echoes of movement. My drones met them in silence, pushing them back before vanishing again, dragging their dead to be recycled.

The war ground on, silent but relentless. Neither side had spoken a word, but the tremors rippling through the stone told our story.

As the final pieces of the plan slid into place, the countdown faded to zero. A controlled detonation rippled beneath the enemy's excavation site. The ground buckled, and with a violent roar, several of their larger machines sank into the moon’s crust, dragging clone escorts with them.

Before the dust settled, the first wave struck. Drones dove from concealed tunnels, weaving through arcs of plasma fire as enemy aerial units scrambled to intercept. Explosions flared in the vacuum—bright but brief. Some drones fell before reaching their targets, torn apart by hypersonic rounds. The airless expanse lit up with missile trails and bursts of plasma, consuming dozens more in flashes of debris.

One drone, barely slipping past the enemy screen, struck true. It impacted the primary drill of the largest excavation rig. The resulting blast shattered the machine’s core, sending fragments spiralling outward. Pieces of metal punctured clone suits in the aftermath, leaving some gasping in silence as their oxygen seeped into the void. Others clung desperately to life, fumbling with emergency seals.

Panic spread. Clones scrambled, some firing blindly into the darkness, while others rallied around the surviving machines. Those with steadier hands landed a few lucky hits, but chaos ruled the battlefield.

The remaining drones pressed the attack. Small groups swarmed enemy aerials, ramming them mid-flight and reducing them to burning wreckage. Others targeted transports, crippling the flow of reinforcements and supplies.

By the time the second wave emerged, the battlefield lay scarred. Surviving machines pressed on, but their clone escorts had thinned, their numbers decimated by the first strike. The burrowers tunnelled closer beneath the confusion, planting explosives along the underbelly of the excavation rigs. Controlled detonations rippled once more—toppling two more machines and tearing through support structures.

Success was fleeting. The enemy adapted quickly. Reinforcements surged from their base, and surviving rigs redoubled their efforts. Clones rallied under the cover of heavy armour, locking down the perimeter with overlapping fields of fire. Above them, aerial drones assumed overwatch, scanning for any hint of movement. My suicide drones became prey, shot down before they could close the distance.

Overhead, the warship responded. Pinpoint orbital strikes rained down, targeting the tunnels my drones used to emerge. Shockwaves rippled through the tunnels, collapsing vital pathways and sealing off escape routes. Several drones were crushed beneath falling debris and lost before they could return.

The intelligence sub-mind whispered warnings—enemy tactics were shifting. They were done playing defensively. Now they focused on containment, isolating my forces to starve me out.

I couldn’t allow them the luxury.

The war sub-mind calculated the odds—grim, but manageable. I initiated the final phase. Suicide drones launched in pairs, prioritizing the most heavily damaged rigs. They struck with precision, tearing through weakened plating and shredding internal systems. Many machines died in silence, joining the growing graveyard of twisted wreckage littering the crater.

But it wasn’t enough.

As the last detonation faded, I surveyed the battlefield through my scouts. My forces had inflicted damage, but too much had survived. Many rigs continued to dig, though slowed and scarred. Their forces regrouped, sealing breaches and expanding defences.

I exhaled—though in this place, breath held no meaning.

The war wasn’t over. It had simply shifted.

As the hive replenished its losses, I turned my focus to the next wave. New drones were already forming in the growth chambers, awaiting release. The burrowers continued their slow spiral beneath the enemy’s position, laying the groundwork for another strike.

The conflict pressed forward.