I wish I knew the bunker was wired with explosives, but sometimes, ignorance is bliss. A saying I embodied as we freed Kerrigan. Turns out zergling teeth treat steel like a game of rock paper scissors, shredding Kerrigan’s chains like wet paper. Though there was no safe way to get the collar off her throat. Besides, I have more pressing concerns. Like the Juggernaut who is headed our way.
One look at my internal sensors told me radiation inside the bunker was about 50 rem, light radiation poisoning after a minute of exposure. Death after twenty four hours. My helmet converted the alien unit automatically into values my tiny Earthling brain could grasp or had a chance of being familiar with, one little perk of being brainwashed in a tube.
“C’mere, take my hand.” I say, helping Kerrigan out of the cage, she is covered in disgusting ick, things I quickly wipe off her with the cleaning wipes in the ration kits.
Even in space, washing your hands is important. Moreso than on earth. Since alien microbes that you have zero biological defenses against could liquify your insides until you pissed brain jelly. Kerrigan’s hands come first, wet wipes clean them off and I hand her one of the C-bars. Narrowly remaining calm as the juggernaut rolls closer. It’s moving slower now, probably took damage.
“Whafths thith?” She asks.
I almost ignore her question, too focused on scouting the bunker with zerglings.
“Food. A gift for my friend.” I say, trying to butter up the bioweapon.
She stares at it for a second, sniffs it, frowns. Then cocks her head to the side.
“It… doesn’th smell like meath.” She mutters.
Meat… She says the word like it’s nothing a common thing. But that little choice in diction confirms my worst fears. I refuse to dwell on it, forcing away the thought.
“Chocolate is a bean I think, and sugar comes from plants as well. If you don’t like it that’s fine, but give it a nibble.” I say pantomiming a wink at the girl. Kinda difficult considering I’m in full anti radiation gear and mask.
She cocks her head, not understanding the gesture. Probably grew up in a test tube of her own with no understanding of the world or other people. At best she’ll end up a sociopath.
No, at best she’ll enjoy chocolate! I mentally correct, wiping her down.
Kerrigan’s bones aren’t human, they’re thicker and more prominent than a child’s bones ought to be, with extra ribs and actual claws protruding from oversized hands. Fangs –her teeth cannot be called anything else– bite into the chocolate bar. They bake those things to be tough, kinda a thick taffy so it travels well and can survive reentry if supply ships get shot down. But it’s still full of everything a body craves. Kerrigan’s eyes light up at the taste, going speechless as she looks at the bar then to me. I smile. Kids love candybars, hell, adults love candybars! And this is space candy, for extra goodness. I think… A flicker of memory runs through my mind, it’s Jim aboard the tax ship, ‘recycle the fatties’.
Note to self, never look at the ingredient list. It’ll be safer–
–a red river flows down Kerrigan’s cheek.
I freeze, ducking to see where the blood is coming from. But her face is all pinched together,
“Are you crying?” I ask, baffled.
Kids don’t cry when you give them chocolate! What did I do wrong? Sure she’s a bioweapon… I really hope she isn’t the kind of bioweapon that explodes when you feed it chocolate. That would be a bit too screwed up. Even for the Technomancy who view humans the way we view a computer’s ram chips. Not the whole completed stick, just the individual black squares that you’ve probably never thought about in your life. Nor considered their metabolic needs or if they got a little uncomfortable after playing too much candy crush.
“Kerrigan, say something, are you alright? Spit it out if it’s that awful!”
In way of response the ration bar disappears into her mouth.
“Sooo goooodth.” Mumbles Kerrigan, chomping her way through the entire bar.
It would be way cuter if her lower jaw didn’t split open, exposing a second row of teeth that sheer through the ‘chocolate’ brick like it’s jello. The juxtaposition of her bleeding eyes, rows of fangs, and smile makes my heart skip several beats. This is the most pant-shittingly terrifying and kinda cute thing i’ve ever beheld. A cacophony of chaos that shorts out my brain for a minute. Til the Juggernaut fires. Four minutes, and I only have a flechette pistol. Kerrigan holds out her hand, asking for another.
“Oh, there are more, don’t eat them so fast though, otherwise you’ll make yourself sick. Uhm, try this one, its-” I glance at the package, reading -meat puree no 12-.
Don’t read the ingredients. I remind myself.
“Actually, not sure what it is. Give it a try. While I… Look around. Actually, take the rations and hide under that crate. I’m not sure how the big guy will react to you.”
“Okay athph- aphthp- … Pfina!” Stutters Kerrigan, her lisp absolutely butchering my name.
She darts under a crate, smiling broadly as she carries twenty pounds of rations in with her. Naked as she is, I spot her tail. It’s boney, with darker skin stretched over the vertebrae and ends in an exposed white spike. Kerrigan is a cute lil bioweapon. Designed to kill Singularity soldiers. Like me.
Three minutes until the Juggernaut reaches us. Despite that, Kerrigan seems energized, as if she could keep going, but the zerglings have found something that we need.
I don’t exactly see through their eyes, but if they’re aware of something I can mentally picture it in my mind. The entire bunker is lined with explosives. All waiting for a signal to detonate. Bricks of a Technomancy C4 equivalent are wired together in a sort of dead man’s firecracker. Defuse one and the others will be pop. A chain reaction of explosions guaranteed to turn the juggernaut missiles into secondary and tertiary detonations. Tens of thousands of pounds of fiery death.
“We gotta go.” I whisper, the sound amplified by my helmet’s speakers.
“Otay Pfina.”
I sweep her into my arms, barely managing to pick up the kid. Whatever lab cooked her up must have been on a heavy gravity world; a truckkun full of bricks weigh less than Kerrigan does. She’s like some awful practical joke involving metal mario. We ain’t going nowhere fast. My ankle screams in protest. I doubt it’s broken, but certainly sprained. We need transportation.
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“Crap…” I mutter aloud, heading for the back of the bunker.
There is a series of locked crates piled up. Electrical panels appear on the front of each one, marking them as sensitive cargo. If you enter the wrong code or try to force them, a booby trap will activate. The most common being an explosive, but more creative Technomancers have included viral loads, bioweaponry of a different nature. A pity really. The crates are heavy enough that we know they're full of gear, but I can’t risk a detonation.
>Terran Thena: Hey, I’m hoping you’re a super smart alien. Can you hack into Technomancy lockers?
>Executrix Alaea: Uhm, I can. But if they find out I was involved, it’ll be galactically bad news.
>Terran Thena: My bunker is wired with bombs, I need a vehicle, or armor or hell, anything! Help? News isn’t worse than death.
The zerglings feel it before I do. Ground rumbling, and the high pressured pops of long range railguns. I swallow, knowing I’m screwed in a fight. Whomever cleared out this bunker did it well enough. No guns or usable munitions remain, only explosives and Juggernaut specific ammo.
One minute till the Juggernaut reaches me. It’ll probably turn me and Kerrigan into pink mist, just like those Tulverians. My legs carry me past the locked crates and my heart leaps. They’re concealing a piece of hardware that is the single most valuable tech for Singularity conscripts to capture. A nanofactory, mostly a block of steel wrapped in composites to keep it protected–
-A faint tingle emanates from my chest, and in a blink the entire room glows with fairy light. Back to total darkness before my helmet can detect the change in light.
>Executrix Alaea: Done.
>Executrix Alaea: A NANOFACTORY! I’m taking that. Shit, where am I gonna put it? Feck. uhmmmm. Oh, I control the detonators, lmk when ur clear.
Advanced alien race is right! This nanofactory should be AI hardened, able to resist hacking attempts. The fact that Alaea also snagged control of the detonators is terrifying. Unless she isn’t a human at all… What can I do if part of me got turned into an Artificial Intelligence?
Thirty seconds before the Juggernaut’s scanners will sweep this bunker.
Nanofactories were ubiquitous across Singularity and Technocracy armadas. A portable piece of equipment that could churn out any pre-designed hardware you could imagine, great for repairs or minor fabrication. Not so great at full system construction. Power armor or motorcycles are about the maximum limit of this machine. Its capture should have me ecstatic. If I could feed it materials or had any chance of protecting this bunker.
There is a moment of silence, then I hear distant rumbling. Hundreds of long range guns firing in unison. What little light that was entering the bunker through it’s doorway vanishes. The Juggernaut is here.
>Terran Thena: I’m trapped in here, going to die. HELP!
>Executrix Alaea: uh…
With the nanofactory between me and the Juggernaut I’m well hidden, plus I can see it through the doglings who have gone to ground, hiding behind or beneath crates. Perfectly still. The Juggernaut backs up, returning the way it came for some inexplicable reason.
>Executrix Alaea: oh! I gotchu fam.
Lights fill the bunker illuminating the space with a thousand blinking LEDs. Zerglings crawl to me, staying low. Pressing their hides against me in a protective squish, a way of shielding me with their bodies. Internal movement warns us of manufacturing occurring within.
The retreating juggernaut raises itself, aligning it’s upper missile tubes to the trench’s mouth. Just in time for three Juggernauts to roll over the trench outside. Treads gore the earth, leaving indents wider than I am tall. One goes up and down the ramps, the other across the missile tubes, metal screams as it tries to support the weight of the warmachine. While a third does the absurd. It locks every missile inside the tube, then sets the rack to maximum inclination. Scores of missiles fire; combining their exhausts to help the Technocracy Tank hop thirty feet. It’s like watching a ballerina fart nukes, if that ballerina was two semi trucks glued together with lab grown meat and called the Killdozer ‘daddy’. Autocannons unleash hatred, spewing thousands of rounds towards human conscripts. I know they’re dying. These tanks are killing other earthlings.
Chink
Work complete the nanofactory ejects its most recent project, a suit of powered armor, painted shitbrown with gray accents. The most beautiful turd I've ever seen. 10/10 would shit again.
>Terran Thena: I need two of those!
>Executrix Alaea: Okay… I’m making five. Factory is too heavy to beam up right now.
>Terran Thena: Can you make one half sized? There’s a girl down here, child.
>Executrix Alaea: A child? What- NO! Don’t explain. Uhm. No, remote control won’t let me alter designs. I’ll have to get it on board.
>Terran Thena: YOU HAVE A SHIP?!?!?!
>Executrix Alaea: It’s not my ship. I’ll be hiding the nanofactory under my bed. Also, no human life support. You’ll die. Sorry.
I don’t have time to scream and swear at this ship shaped wrench, I’m too busy jamming empty artillery shells and spare rations into the suit. At eight feet tall it’s highly reminiscent of Terran Marine armor, big shoulderpads, dual reactors on the back in a sort of backpack with the front being covered in sensors, lights, and a ton –literally– of armor to counterbalance.
“Alright Kerrigan, hop in the armor, it’ll keep you safe!” I say, lowering her into the suit through the neck hole.
The Juggernaut outside rotates again, its missile tubes smashed flat by cosplaying as a bridge. What a maneuver. But missile tubes are semi disposable. I know cause there are about a thousand lining the bunker walls. Hydraulics hiss, the Juggernaut lowering itself once more and turning to face us.
I thank god the nanofactory’s completion port isn’t facing the trench, though logic corrects me. What idiot would give enemies a straight shot into the factory’s internals? Kerrigan’s hips and shoulders slide right in, head disappearing for a second before it pops back up. A sharkish grin across her face.
“I know armor! Red guy showed me how to uthe this. Before he lefth me behind.” She says, moving the arms and legs.
Visor hisses shut, how her lil arms reach any controls is a miracle, but she is mobile and waddles behind the factory with me. We have no guns, no capacity for killing tanks. Only zerglings. So I give the panic order that all zerglings receive when an overwhelming force is bearing down on them.
Burrow.
“Dig!” I shout.
They obey, claws flaying the steel grates in two swipes before scooping pawfuls of dirt out of the way. Treads whine, metal howls. The Juggernaut is entering the bunker, crushed tubes scraping the excavated walls. Another Juggernaught rocket jumps the trench, closer, smoke fogs the trench and bunker, drowning us in black rocket ejaculate. My mask filters it out, air tasting canned like it always does, but the zerglings wheeze, giving away our position. I rest my head against Kerrigan’s armor, there’s nothing left for us to do other than stay quiet. In the total silence I hear a sound that makes my heart stop. Kerrigan’s radio buzz, and the orders of an angry Juggernaut.
“Tech, replace my tubes.” Echoes through her helmet.
A voice I’ve heard often rises from Kerrigan’s throat, but it’s not hers.
“Piss off bolt brain! Can’t you see we evacuated. My damn suit’s buggered. That’s why I’m making a replacement.”
“Don’t make me come down there you little cun–”
“Oh yeah big boy? What you gonna do?” Says Kerrigan, using MY voice. “Gonna waste your last bullets on me. Then head to the next bunker without a single round? Blow the hot air out of your ports. Ah, look. I don’t even have bullets for you. Quit bitching. Get rolling. Sorry.”
Servoes whine to the tune of a screaming man. A sensor ping rips through the bunker. One last wail before the juggernaut turns and drives away. That was closer than shaving a scrotum with straight razors.
A second suit appears in front of me, chest open. Inviting me into the warm bosom of safety. I scramble up the suit, using its hands as footholds to get above it. From here I can shimmy into the suit. It’s not built for a woman, let alone one with hips and double D tits, the Technomancy probably considers those unnecessary. Damn cyborgs must feed babies motor oil or something. I have to undo my mask and shake my hips into the suit then wiggle one boob at a time into position. Technomancers must remove half their bodies to get in and out comfortably. At this point I’m too desensitized to even shudder. Besides, the sudden feeling of being encased in protection settles my heart. Not even the steaming fumes of this world can crush my spirits now.
Crush my spirits…
I’m in armor.
Before my visor shuts I look at Kerrigan, “Get that Juggernaut back here, I’ve got a plan.”
Visor hisses shut. But for a second I can taste the steaming fumes of this world. Its rancid stench of cooked bodies. If ten thousand men cut their throats and bled into one parking lot, then sat in the sun for a week it wouldn’t smell half as vile. And I intend to cut one very large throat.