The enemy had largely pulled back after my last attack. Their destroyed excavators littered the surface, twisted and broken, while the rest had retreated to their base. Only the occasional scout or light patrol lingered near the furthest wreckage, scavenging what little remained.

The surface lay in ruin a graveyard of jagged metal and shattered rock. Smoke, though thin in the low atmosphere, drifted lazily over craters gouged deep by orbital fire. The largest rigs were nothing more than skeletal husks, half-buried beneath rockslides or scorched to the core. Scorch marks spread across the moon’s crust like old scars, expanding with each new volley.

For now, the battle had shifted back to orbital bombardments. Three more warships had arrived, and with their combined might, they laid waste to the surface. Round after round turned the landscape into blackened, broken terrain. I watched as debris drifted lazily above the moon, forming an ever-thickening cloud that now limited sight for my surface scouts.

I withdrew them, sending the remaining scouts further back hoping I could still observe enemy movement, but the debris field restricted sight to a few areas.

Instead, I monitored the expanding tunnels, focusing on any signs of instability. The lower levels trembled with each bombardment, cracks forming in the outermost sections. Patching up the vulnerable points kept the construction sub-mind occupied, but we both knew the truth. If this continued, we would lose half of the mid-level tunnels within days.

I sent a mental command to the construction sub-mind to show me how much damage was accumulating.

In response, a flood of information from burrowers and architects came showing them moving to patch up damage, tracing weak points along the tunnels. Some areas already at risk of collapse were stripped and abandoned.

The war sub-mind added new calculations that with the continuous bombardment we’ll lose forty percent of mid-level tunnels in four days at this rate.

I queried both sub-minds about pulling back half the burrowers to patchwork some tunnels their reply already showed the worst outcome mid-layer stability would collapse even with patchwork done if this continued within nine days the mid-layer would collapse.

Most of my efforts shifted toward retreat. The war sub-mind calculated that escalation was inevitable—only a matter of time before they unleashed greater destruction. Nuclear payloads loomed as the most likely threat, but the spectre of something worse, like antimatter, lingered at the fringes of every scenario. Avoidance was no longer an option.

So why hadn’t they used them already?

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

The intelligence sub-mind theorized limited stockpiles or a shortage of key materials elsewhere. Another possibility loomed larger, I was near something valuable, something they wanted intact.

I traced the edges of a resin tablet, watching as my thoughts drifted across its surface in faint symbols. Sanctuary was going to fall.

The drones had already begun recycling operations, stripping collapsing tunnels bare. Anything not essential to the final push was consumed, even the last prisoners.

I watched as one clone paused before the bio-fabricator, dragging the arm of a prisoner now half-dissolved by the recycler. The clone hesitated, staring down at the body as if searching for something hidden underneath its skin.

Is there a problem? I asked, sending a thought through the hive link. The clone didn’t respond immediately. It released the arm, letting it fall with a wet thud into the recycler. Without another word, the clone turned back to its task.

I needed more biomass.

Production surged as new drones rolled off the bio-fabricators—heavies units, assault units, sniper variants, and swarms of suicide drones. The scouts had already been recycled. Burrowers ceased digging new lower tunnels, redirecting their efforts toward the surface. They carved channels in every direction, hollowing the ground beneath the enemy base.

I planned to destroy them and wipe out their excavators, supply lines, and base before retreating south with a last middle finger for sanctuary.

The war sub-mind calculated catastrophic losses. Every drone on the surface would fall, but if the damage was great enough, the sacrifice would be worth it. Architects had already begun modifying the burrowers, turning them into walking bombs. They would form the first wave. Suicide drones would follow in four separate waves, clearing the way for the final combat units.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

I discarded the resin tablet, feeding it into the bio-fabricator before stepping toward a freshly made scout drone. This one would house my implant.

A surgery drone floated toward me, its jellyfish-like appendages curling in anticipation. Thin surgical limbs unfolded as it drifted closer, covering the scout’s cranium.

The second drone approached, positioning itself near the back of my head. Its movements were smooth, and practised. I felt the cold press of sterilizing fluid along the edges of my chitin skull before the first incision cut deep.

Pain flickered—brief but sharp. The drone moved swiftly, slicing through layers of hardened resin and organic material until the outer shell cracked open. I felt the implant detach as the drone delicately extracted it, cradling the core within its translucent body.

The second drone completed its work, hollowing the scout’s cranium until it was ready. The two drones connected, passing the implant between their forms with the utmost care.

Seconds later, the implant nestled into the scout’s cranium. Resin closed over the opening, sealing the drone as new chitin layered across the surface.

The implants HUD obscured my vision as it started to boot up. The scout’s frame was small, compact—but sufficient. I flexed its body experimentally, listening to the movement of its organs beneath the chitin plating, testing and manoeuvring its body.

The surgery drones lingered, reinforcing the scout’s plating with additional layers of resin. My primary body moved toward the bio-fabricator, architects already waiting. I felt them dismantle me piece by piece, stripping each component down for biomass.

I drifted into the etheric plane. The sphere remained, vast and impenetrable, cutting me off from the rest of the plane. It lingered at the edges of perception, casting faint ripples across the void.

With the last clone body sent for recycling, I felt my mental strength return. I spread my consciousness through each combat drone, guiding them toward every enemy weapon cache I had secured. Piece by piece, the drones worked to reassemble the salvaged arms, gathering enough firepower to equip several more combat variants.

I immersed myself fully, sifting through each drone’s sensory feed—a flood of information cascading through the hive. I searched relentlessly, scanning for anything that could be repurposed before the final assault.

Minutes bled into hours before I finally withdrew, allowing the sub-minds to resume their tasks in silence.

There was nothing left to do but wait until the attack commenced.

I hate waiting.