Weeks have passed since I started expanding the cave network. The silence of the moons underground now feels like a constant companion, broken only by the quiet skittering of the burrowers as they move about, tirelessly continuing the work of digging and reinforcing.

The cave network has grown beyond what I’d imagined, spanning kilometres beneath the surface, with tunnels winding deep into the moon’s crust.

As I make my rounds, observing the network as it continues to expand. I wouldn't need to with my vast mind receiving real-time updates from the thousands of drones, but it helps when I have time to think of the next phase of planning.

Some sections of the tunnels are narrow, intentionally designed that way to confuse or slow any potential intruders. Other hallways twist and turn at odd angles, forcing anyone unfamiliar with the layout to stop and reconsider their path. I’ve started reinforcing key points with artificial doors—thick, resin-covered barriers that can only be opened by the drones or me.

I pause in one of the newly created hallways, where the drones have just finished their work. The walls are slick with fresh resin, the material still cooling and hardening. This place feels different from the others—it’s tighter and more claustrophobic.

By design. If an enemy were to make it this far, they would find themselves trapped, unable to move quickly or efficiently. The drones could flood these narrow passages, overwhelming any threat with sheer numbers.

Deeper into the network, past the layers of defences, I reach a new section. It’s still rough, the resin barely set, and the air here is thin. The drones have only just finished carving out this part of the cave, and it smells of freshly cut stone. This will be the new testing site.

Kilometres beneath the moon’s surface, far from the original cave, I’ve built something different. This chamber is vast, large enough to house forty of the original swarm.

My legs clicked softly as I crossed to the far side of the chamber, stopping in front of a large slab of stone I had carved from the wall. On the stone surface rested several resin tablets, each one etched with lines and crude shapes. These were my thoughts on the first weapon designs.

I ran my fingers over the nearest tablet, feeling the rough, uneven surface of the resin. It was crude, but it was a start, a first attempt to arm myself, to give my drones something more than simple utility.

There were three tablets in total, each representing a different category of weapons: short-range medium-range and long-range.

This was my first foray into biological weaponry creation, something to give me an edge against whatever awaited above.

The first tablet depicted a design for a short-range weapon. I had drawn a cluster of barbed, retractable spines that would extend from a drone’s forelimbs. They would be hardened and sharpened to a fine point, able to tear through most materials with ease in theory. The idea was simple close-quarters combat, fast and efficient. The spines could be coated with a poison I could create.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

The second tablet depicted a rough sketched design of a short-range biological launcher. The concept was simple, a biological organ capable of shooting sharp projectiles.

It was primitive, a first draft of what, I hoped, would one day become a more refined defence system. My claws tapped on the stone, recalculating its design concept before setting the tablet down.

Lifting the last tablet, this one wasn't roughly sketched but was made more refined and clear in the final design. I had searched through all my memories, looking at possible designs that could punch through armour.

The concept is simple: a substance that remains liquid inside the weapon, but hardens almost instantly upon exposure to the vacuum outside.

I've managed to create a crude version of the gel using a mixture of organic matter, fungal secretions, and trace minerals. The result is a substance that stays fluid under pressure but rapidly crystallizes into a jagged, solid form once it contacts air or, in this case, the void.

I walk over to a nearby ledge where I’ve stored the first test weapon. It’s a heavy, organic construct—purely biological, as all my creations are. The frame is chitinous, a dark grey like my body, with veins of resin running through it to provide structure and flexibility. The barrel is long, ribbed with sections of cartilage, with a smooth, open chamber at the rear for loading the gel.

I heft the weapon in my arms, feeling the weight of it. It’s heavy but manageable. I can make it lighter in future iterations. The real test is in the firing.

The first version uses a compression system, where the gel is forced through the barrel by muscular contractions, much like how certain creatures spit venom. I load a canister of the gel into the chamber, sealing it with a membrane of stretched fungal tissue.

I aim the weapon at the far end of the cavern, where one of the ore deposits gleams dully in the resin light. My tendrils curl around the weapon, tightening as I brace for the recoil.

With a mental command, the muscles within the weapon contract, forcing the liquid gel through the barrel. There’s a soft thud as the gel fires, shooting through the air. For a brief moment, it remains liquid, a silvery blob streaking across the cave. Then, halfway to the target, it begins to harden, crystallizing into a jagged, solid mass.

The projectile strikes the ore with a sharp crack, embedding itself into the surface. I walk over to inspect the damage, my tendrils twitching with excitement. The crystalline shard has pierced several inches into the metal, leaving a web of cracks around the point of impact.

Not bad for a first attempt, but it’s not perfect. The gel crystallized too early, reducing its velocity and impact force. I’ll need to adjust the mix, perhaps tweak the firing mechanism to reduce the pressure.

I return to the weapon and set it down on the slab. My mind races with possibilities. The next design, I decide, will use a different firing method—something with more control over the gel’s state before it exits the barrel. I look over the designs on the tablet again, considering my options.

One idea stands out: a pressurized chamber system, where the gel is stored in a liquid state within a pressurized sac and fired by releasing a controlled burst of pressure. It should allow the gel to remain liquid longer, increasing its range and impact before crystallization.

I grab another canister of gel and begin modifying the weapon. The new system is bulkier, with the pressurized sac attached to the side of the barrel, but it should work. Once the modifications are complete, I load the gel and aim at another ore deposit.

This time, I fired with more precision, the pressurized chamber releasing the gel in a sharp burst. The silvery blob shoots through the air, staying liquid for most of the distance, before it hardens into a crystalline spike just moments before impact. The projectile slams into the ore with a deafening crack, sending a spray of metal shards across the cave.

I approach the target again, examining the damage. The spike has driven deep into the ore, shattering part of it on impact. This is much better—more force, more precision.

However, the pressurized system makes the weapon bulky and slow to reload. I can’t rely on this in a fast-paced combat situation. There has to be a way to streamline the process.