The Nanofactory churns to life, light appearing within.

>Praetorian Panoptes: I’m in control, you have five minutes before that Juggernaut rolls over your skull.

>Terran Apollo: Your initials are PP. But they should be AS for AssHole. I have a needler and it’s a gotdaamned TANK!

I rip off my gasmask, coughing blood onto the floor. My hands strip my outer layers, they won’t fit into the Tychus plan. Nanofactory screens illuminate then run through a thousand schematics in nanoseconds, all skimmed and beamed to Panoptes.

Alien is right. Advanced alien too! Mr. PP got the luckiest roll of us all. I shake my head once. This nanofactory should be AI hardened, able to resist hacking attempts. A thousand ideas occur to me at once and I take the most obvious and appealing course of action.

>Terran Apollo: Hack the Juggernaut.

>Praetorian Panoptes: Can’t. They’re wetware systems. Earthling core. Hope whorely got turned into one of them. Then we can piledrive that whore with a spaceship.

I cackle at the thought. Humor fighting off the terrifying abilities of an interstellar hacker. At least, it tries too. Panoptes isn’t Apollo anymore. But what if the reference is more like a model number. You wouldn’t name a human ‘omniscient guardian’ so why would an alien race name my other half exactly that…? Logic is quick on this simple problem. He’s an Artificial Intelligence. Or they plugged his mind -my mind- into some kind of computer. What can I do if part of me exists only in cyberspace?

A snapping sensation fills my mind. It’s ling-ling2.

“You idiot. Don’t bite the gun in half!”

He cowers, tail falling between his knees. I sigh, these lings can talk, but they aren’t fully sentient. Closer to a dog’s intelligence than a fully functioning human being. Or my cousin Carl, that dude is dumb enough to walk through a blizzard in his boxers. How he is still sucking air surprises me each Christmas. I gulp. There won’t be another Christmas with the family. Not this year. Or next.

Lingling2 whimpers softly; reminds me of dad yelling at our golden retriever. Whether he pissed on the carpet or not, everyone feels like a piece of shit.

I temper my voice, these lings might be the only companions I have. Best treat them right. “Hey, look its fine. Go touch another one. Don’t bite it. You’re doing great.”

Juggernaut engines restart with a deep rumbling that shakes my boots. Kerrigan appears at my side, tucking herself against my bad leg. I wince, prepared to fall over as my sprained ankle gives out, only to find the leg fully healed. That Singularity weapon did more than just cure my bullet wounds.

But what was the price? I wonder, hoping I don’t have space cancer from the instant healing. After all, cancer is just rapid cellular regeneration.

“Is Pawlo otay?” Asks Kerrigan.

I pat her head, too busy trying to execute ‘Tychus’. Just cause I know the plan doesn’t make implementation any easier.

>Terran Apollo: Can you use the lings as targets for teleportation? The far away ling is trying to bring me a Tulverian plasma rifle.

>Praetorian Panoptes: Yes, and I’ll do you one better.

A heads up display appears in my vision, with simple controls for teleportation. Anything I'm touching can be marked, more than that, anything within ten meters of myself or a creature in our hive mind can be marked, including anything the lings are physically touching. There are other options too, like a tagging system to mark distant objects, the touch restriction is just a filter. A way to limit the options and not spam me with ten thousand buttons. Neat–

–Bullets cut through smoke flying a foot over my head as the Juggernaut reactivates its weaponry. We’ve got a moment or two before the Juggernaut reboots all systems. Less if the pilot is experienced enough to manually control the vehicle.

“Kerrigan, if that tank comes in here I want you to run down that tunnel. Do not look back! Don’t worry about me.” I hiss, ducking and circling to the Nanofactory’s product port.

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. Sorta like an industrial sized 3d printer, complete with customizable metal injection and rubber. Power armor or motorcycles are about the maximum limit of this specific machine’s dimensions. Although it might be able to expand and accommodate larger objects, like SUVs. Its capture should have me ecstatic, and it does… If I could feed it materials or had any chance of protecting this bunker.

“Ith Pawlo gonna weaff me behind?” Asks Kerrigan.

“No. I’ll be right behind you. So do not stop running. Understand?”

She nods, so trusting. I wonder if this is what the Singularity’s bioweapon once was, small, alone, naked, and totally exposed to violence before they had any concept of humanity. The nanofactory pauses, loading another crate of supplies. There is a moment of silence, then I hear distant rumbling. The deeply quiet booms of long range guns firing in unison. What little light entering the bunker vanishes. The Juggernaut is here.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

>Terran Apollo: THOR IS HERE! I’M TRAPPED! HELP!

>Praetorian Panoptes: working on it.

With the nanofactory between me and the Juggernaut I’m well hidden, plus I can see it through ling1 who’s gone to ground, hiding beneath crates. Perfectly still. The Juggernaut backs up, returning the way it came for some inexplicable reason. The tank jerks awkwardly. Starting then stopping three times. Did the pilot reboot incorrectly? If I didn’t know better I'd say he was a psychopath that plays with inverted controls and someone just swapped out his controller.

>Praetorian Panoptes: oh! I gotchu fam.

Lights fill the bunker illuminating the space with a thousand blinking LEDs. Ling1 crawls to me, staying low. Pressing a shoulder against me in a protective squish, a way of shielding me with his body. Internal movement warns us of manufacturing progressing to the final stages within.

The retreating juggernaut raises itself, aligning its 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 their launchers, then sets the rack to maximum inclination. Scores of missiles fire; combining their exhausts to help the Technotank 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. Plan Tychus is simple, infiltrate the enemy’s armor and shoot em in the ass. Just like the Tychus did with the Odin. An infinitely more elegant plan than blowing myself sky high to kill one Juggernaut.

>Terran Apollo: I need two of those!

>Praetorian Panoptes: Okay… I’m making five. Factory is too heavy to beam up right now.

>Terran Apollo: Can you make one half sized? There’s a girl down here, child.

>Praetorian Panoptes: 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 Apollo: YOU HAVE A SHIP?!?!?!

>Praetorian Panoptes: It’s not my ship. I’ll be hiding the nanofactory in my closet… Under my bed. Also, no human life support. Maybe no oxygen. You’d probably 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. Part of me respects the enormous balls on this warmachine, and the other part of me warps two Tulverian plasma rifles aboard PP’s ship. They’re valuable, despite having no place in ‘Tychus’.

Still, missile tubes are semi dispoSage. I know cause there are about a thousand of them 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. This was no act of fate. No 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 an elastagirl miracle, but she is mobile and waddles behind the factory with me. We have no heavy 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 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 Juggernaut 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! Got shot to hell! We shoulda stayed evacuated. Now 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 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 an unaugmented man, let alone a fit college kid with biceps. 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 to get inside. Technomancers must remove half their bodies to get in and out comfortably. But 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. As 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.