We will land in six hours. A timeline that makes every inch of my carapace itch with anticipation. I’ve taken up residence in my drop pod, resting in preparation for the sprint that will soon arrive. My physiology has hundreds of adaptations to preserve cellular resources, from pockets of acid to reserves of ATP and muscle fibers that gain more strength the less often they’re used.
Oh, and adrenal glands, we’ve got metric shitloads of those. Enough for an adrenaline dump that lasts five hours. Hopefully I won’t have to use those, but it is somewhat comforting to know the option is available to me. Once planetside I’ll be autonomous without any oversight that might inhibit my own designs. Of course that assumes Shipmind faceplants and dies. If it survives the landing then the elder mind will take control over our base and serve as our ‘coordinator’ a Collective way of saying he’ll be my nanny, always swatting my claws when I try and sneak a biomass cookie or chasing me around the apartment with a clipboard and stopwatch, timing how long it takes to put my socks on.
I’m not normally an asshole, but I truly wish for Shipmind’s death.
Five hours before our landing I receive a visitor. She -though I am unsure if human binaries can be applied to myself or any member of the Endless Collective, aesexual reproduction is dimorphically alien like that- swims into my drop pod, brushing aside drowned bioforms to stare at me like I’m some rare edition of a gas station Snickers bar. Or maybe he just psychically said hello and my subbrain missed the greeting. They really aren’t great at thinking. I bounce my legs like a squid, rising ten feet out of the green fluid to meet the thing’s eyes. Legs tip tap their way onto the walls, holding me suspended.
I’m like a cat perched on your ficus, crouched, ready to pounce. Which gives me an idea, why were there no felinid zerg units? A high burst damage, stealthy unit that attacked from ambush should have fit the theme purrrrrrfectly. Except the flaws are obvious. No niche. Hard to beat banelings in the bursting niche since they’re little more than salt inducing atom bombs and ambushes were better done with burrowed lurkers if you wished to kill or lings to trap the enemy. It’s the Wings of Liberty Predator problem, the unit isn’t garbage, it just never filled a desirable niche that cooperates with other units so it always got left in a cardboard box like an orphaned kitty cat.
I muse on the starcraftian details of the Predator, bearing the mechanical tag so medics couldn’t heal it but had a painfully low health pool that required constant repair, limiting its usefulness to a biological composition and was far too expensive technologically for a throw away melee unit. But that lightning field. Hot damn. Two predators could kill thousands upon thousands of zerglings with that single ability. Each time they attacked everything around them got hit with lightning, two of them would synergize and create a fatal electrical wall against melee opponents. Until a single hydra shot them in the face and murdered the thunder cats. A fate no one enjoyed watching.
If only they hadn’t removed the cloak. I think, already eager to correct that oversight, after all it is within my capabilities to do so. Invisibly electric zerg kittens, coming to a mining world near you.
“And we can’t forget the lightning field…” I whisper aloud.
On a whim I task a subbrain with the maxim ‘find creatures that create electrical fields, prioritize any felines’. Why shouldn’t I take inspiration from past failures? Who said the Endless Collective could not succeed where engineers had failed?
Subbrain responds immediately, “Ask Hygieia for assistance.”
I mentally poke the disobeient turd within my skull, Hygieia could assist me, but I gave the task to the subbrain, telling me no is unacceptable, if we had more time i’d melt it down then and there. In fact, I do that anyways, and begin reconstruction of the subbrain.
Other parts of my intelligence are ordered to take up its slack. Lifeforms are found, their genomes assessed for compatibility and implemented. One lobe of my brain immediately begins to write the genetic sequence. Claws from a Tulvarian jaguar, crystal fangs from Conglomerate worlds, active camouflage from earth octopi, and the list continues within my untamed subbrains who question my purpose.
‘Why develop such a creature?’ They whisper, no doubt seeking to trigger mental blocks.
‘I’m trying to develop a slightly heavier version of the spinolings. An ambusher who sequesters radioactive carbon more swiftly. See the adapted claws and teeth?’
My excuse is excellent, they have no reason to question a focused development of our goal. Therefore I’m stunned when my own brains contact the fleetmind, hopping right over Shipmind and going to the equivalent of an admiral with my experiment.
I see, even my own subbrains will have to be removed and regrown before I can act autonomously…
Hive minds are strange creations, at any given second each life form must be focused on the current task, while simultaneously linked to all other bioforms. Usually the link is a small humming sensation in the back of my mind, like distant singing or a lullaby. Now it rises. I’m thrown off a mountain, rocks break my spine as my brains enter an active discussion between twelve Matriarchs of the landing party.
Fleetmind: Zazathur’s reincarnation is complete. Include him in our designs. End.
The greatest mind in this solar system retreats, turning his attention elsewhere.
Hygieia: I am against your crystalline cats. Felines ambush from trees but there are no trees in the landing zone. What good are excellent killers of unsuspecting prey when the enemy has radar. We expect more from you Zazathur, not this wanton waste of biomass. Although, the idea is fascinating, active camouflage would create invisible hunters. Ah, but its too expensive. Requires neuron duplication to the dermis.
She mentally pauses, calculating numbers and projected outcomes.
Hygieia: Ten times the neural network would be required. Impossible. Skin is fragile, we would have to cover any defensive chitin in camo skin, reducing effectiveness of both organs.
Agreement fills our minds as four matriarchs side with Hygieia against my zerg kittens. This is happening, and the hitlerina of eugenics can get bent. My race is one he does not get to erase.
Straingineer Zazathur: Ah, thank you for your critique Hygieia, I’m still working on the design and you make excellent points. Chitin would be insufficient for our mandate so we can adapt the spinoling’s dorsal spines into thin tubes, almost hair-like that way the skin can be visible through a layer of spines but every inch of the bioform will be protected. This isn’t an arboreal tiger nor a frontline replacement for the spinolings who can tunnel and fight well enough on their own. But spinolings shed spines upon contact with enemies then often keep pressing forward. They will not sequester any radioactivity within our spawning pools, thus endangering our mission. Fleetmind requires that we cleanse the landing zone of radiation so a brood guardian with aggressive descaling is required. Quality biomass will be at hand as well as spare population cycles, given the circumstances a long gestation period should be implemented as these cats will need longer lifespans.
My thoughts seem to silence the link, most Matriarchs reviewing the bioform with added context. So many of them were thinking about throwing thousands of these creatures at the enemy fortresses. Part of me is appalled, twelve people were all thinking the same thing while ignoring obvious holes in their plan. Why is everyone so aggressively minded? Wars are won with economics!
Matriarch Ardain: Why pursue electrical discharges?
Straingineer Zazathur: Brood guardians are expected to face superior numbers in ambushes or defensive actions. I was considering lightning glands as a way to overcome that future deficit. A few glands can store a charge then expend it upon contact with multiple foes or against a superior attacker to paralyze them and gain the upper hand or root them in place until reinforcements can arrive.
Two Matriarchs vote to pass my design into full production, so long as they do not have to incorporate the creature. It’s no surprise that these two will drop in the first wave of our vanguard. Eager to a fault.
Matriarch Ardain: Hmmm. So these thundercats are expensive and hunt in packs…
Her diction annoys me. We’re making very serious angry war kittens, not furries from the 1980s. Something about the way she thought ‘thundercats’ conjured a mental image of the cartoon and I’m left to wonder if she was replaced just like I was. Jim said he restored similar creatures often. Was Ardain from Earth like myself? My Annoyance with her is quickly replaced with curiosity. Ah, I’d ask her directly but there are at least twenty entities listening in on us right now. Anything relating to Earth will have to wait til we get settled planetside.
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Straingineer Zazathur: Look, Fleetmind’s mandate is clear. Remove all ambient radiation starting in the hive cluster. Your choice is to leave dozens, maybe hundreds of spinolings at base, or one of these crystal cats. Besides, excess radiation will cause reductions in output or risk undesirable mutations within the biopools.
Two Matriarchs switch in favor of my idea already reaching the end conclusion.
Straingineer Zazathur: Our mission isn’t biomass retention that is only a limitation, we must teraform the planet. My crystalline lions can be active at night or within cave networks where spinolings lose efficiency. If anyone has a genome for improved senses and radar defeating carapaces I’ll happily integrate them into the design.
Five Matriarchs swing in my favor, three falling out of Hygieia’s camp. For a moment I’m lost in the discussion, there are now thirteen voters, and I have a majority. But the idea has not passed.
Hygieia: Logical. Still vanity project. Soul echo. Another matriarch should take over development.
No emotion crosses my face, a handicap I’m grateful for because nothing would make me happier than flipping Hygieia the bird right now. But we aren’t talking with words per se. The Mental link operates in a more complete connection where pictures are shared in an instant with all context explained as the speaker understands it.
Matriarch Ardain: I agree with all twelve uteri, you are indeed a vanity project Hygieia.
Eleven matriarchs change their votes in agreement for a second then switch back to their original stances. I blink, confused. Did the hive mind’s just make a joke?
Matriarch Ardain: The biopool defender shall be assigned this development task.
Twelve votes shift in agreement, including my own. I try not to scowl as my subbrain over reaches once more. The nerve, voting without main brain’s consent! Somehow I feel violated, as if I've pissed myself and now need to be potty trained.
Brain, you better start behaving or I’m replacing you next! I think, hoping he can hear my thoughts. A threat I fully intend on executing if the subbrain doesn’t learn his place! But not today. No, today the vote is cast and my project is reassigned to-
Matriarch Ardain: Since Hygieia was most recently reincarnated she should be repositioned to the biopools alongside Straingineer Zazathur, in case there are any lingering defects.
Thirteen votes in my favor.
-Me? They reassigned my project to myself? Why is my subbrain still voting?! Ah! Whatever. I did put it in charge of Collective communication, maybe I’m missing some cultural oddity. Even Hygieia voted to make me the biopool’s uncle. Pool Uncle? No, that sounds like a speedo wearing Onlyfans hunk. Biogineer? Better, but only half baked and gooey on the inside. Ew, not a fan of that thought.
Over the next hour Matriarchs Ardain and Shafan lay out our battle plans, many Matriarchs alter the plan slightly to better suit their individual adaptations. Shafan will land closer to the mountain range so she may gather her forces there before assaulting the Tulverian fortress from below ground. For me the plan slips in one psionic earhole and out the other.
What do I care about tilting the drop pod angle of approach by .02 degrees? Bleh. But I hold my tongue. Across the Collective there is always someone monitoring your thoughts. A fleetmind there, or shipmind here, and rarely one of the overminds so large only a planet can contain its wrinkles. One of them will surely notice my rebellion if I ignore this council of war to galavant through my brain removing mental locks. So I cease all work there, silently ordering my cells to stop dissolving the brain in my thorax. This body is neat like that, total autonomic control, with the option to offload functions as needed to a few dozen spare brains.
Stoically, I thank Zazathur, his body’s innate knowledge allows me to seamlessly join with the Collective while plotting my return to Earth. They’ve even given me blueprints to their bioships, which are in desperate need of retooling.
Leviathans these are not, more like space squids that never learned how to harden the fuck up and turn into calamari at the mere sight of an enemy vessel. Hmm… Guess that makes sense for an Endless Collective, build em cheap and drown the universe in squids. Yeah, I can’t just fry up another batch of Apollo Finleys. Despite dad’s best efforts. New designs will have to be implemented.
Right after I win this world, subtly of course. Find a way to clone myself and build a ship capable of space travel. It doesn’t have to be a battleship, just something large enough to reach the gate and warp home. Some basic point defense pods will be required but the Collective has already solved that question with ambassadorial couriers.
Small agile spaceships capable of evading combat while transporting VIPs.
Soon I will return to earth.
What a ginormous insect will do back home is a different question. With all my subbrains I’ll be the most efficient supercomputer ever known to man, able to delegate simple tasks and retain an attention to detail that exceeds one thousand accountants on truckloads of adderall.
“Maybe I’ll take up farming…” I say, voice trailing off as clicking meets my ears.
Hygieia is physically in my room, still staring at me. The newly reformed Matriarch’s claws click. Straightening to look at my face. Ancient, yet eternal. Aged like no being of the Endless should be. Yet she had done the inconceivable and integrated the nameless caste’s genetics into her own. I would need to attempt the same–
–the thought never settled in my mind, erased by some genetic prohibition on the sin. Quite literally making it unthinkable. A mental block I've missed. From a brain I have no awareness of.
“Zazathur, your bioforms are sloppy. Ill conceived with half implemented ideas that are only quarter functional.” She snaps, using a voice so raspy it could file wood.
Great, the gatekeeper doesn’t like me. Savannah, cali girl that she is, would probably call him Hitler, but she enjoys a liberal usage of the term. Once upon a time in Walmart she started differentiating the oranges by hitlers and brownies whatever that meant. It made zero sense, but she normally wasn’t that strange, she had made it into college on a scholarship. After that I took everything she said with a grain of salt. Instead, I'll just call him dad. As it was Zazathur’s cells Hygieia reincarnated from.
I understood the process, and noted how each of our cells had been harvested a month earlier in preparation for this drop, should we die some poor sap from another culled world would be stuffed into our reincarnated carapaces in the hope our minds would dominate the soul and resurrect. Wait, why hadn’t that happened to me? Zazathur’s mind wasn’t actively fighting me. In fact, he’d given me every tool to remove the mental locks.
Mandibles click. My poolmates’ way of flicking my nose.
“Then do better oh great and wise Matriarch.” I say, hoping she'll leave me alone.
Hygieia lifts a hand holding something that looks like a fuzzy weaponized cockroach. Her habit of creating miniature proto-forms is as disconcerting as my own penchant for them, like sculpting an effigy of yourself before burning it on a pyre. Or dissolving the mini roach in a pool of acid.
“Have done better. Access the improved design for corpse collectors. Report findings to Ardain and brood mother.” Says Hygieia, tossing the fuzzy cockroach to me.
I accept the offered creature and the mental databurst that accompanies it. Kinda like handing a puppy over and receiving an airdrop on your phone except this version actually works. It’s fuzziness does not stem from fur, but spines with venomous injections. Genomic notes indicate this roach is extremely acidic with an average PH 1 across all bodily fluids. So acidic that they’ll corrupt our biopools PH levels unless we build them very sparingly, although that too has been taken into account. Two alterations to our spinolings and the biopools will produce excess acids in a positive feedback loop, creating the necessary juices to produce these roaches.
“When did you have the time to make this?” I mutter, confused on Hygieia’s sudden cooperation.
“Ardain gave me the idea, improved tunneling speed, regeneration, and armor, excellent for Syrak.”
Her work is shockingly efficient. Hygieia’s old pill bugs were only seen as biomass reclaimers, a sort of tunneling corpse bug. Whereas this creation is a lysergic acid blender that spews caustic mountain dew to eat through a tank. Half baneling, half armored trenching tool, and half biological warfare. 150% Roach. Right out of starcraft. So close of a rip off I know Ardain got the idea from Earth.
After all, we were going to an irradiated world with trench warfare, I needed the best diggers around! Life was unsustainable upon the surface, an underground hive would have to be dug, fungi cultivated, and a slow build up of forces maintained. Subterranean raids may often be my only workable avenue of attack.
Will we even have to fight the Juggernauts? I can support Apollo and help her kill them.
Hygieia’s concerns click into place.
“Oh, you feel I will lose the war.” I say.
“Indeed.” Says Eugenicist Hitlerina, clasping two of her many appendages together. “As does Fleetmind. There is no reason for a straingineer like yourself to accompany a combat drop. Tarsidium may have been counted as your victory, but do not forget nine Matriarchs died with their broods. Your infiltration was luck. Not skill. Do not expect such tactics to work here. Else your genome will be cataloged and culled from active replication.”
What she leaves out is the process of cataloging. I’ll be broken down into basic molecules, liquified, then fed into an isolated biopool buried so deep on a farming world that none will ever uncover my genes. In short, death of myself and everything I’ve created.
“I shall not disappoint. Do you have recommendations concerning the enemy? Or these Juggernauts?” I ask, tugging on Terran Apollo’s flashtrained knowledge.
She is silent for a moment that stretches through the night. Green luminescent liquids shadow her face. As if the question has revealed my human soul.
“They are not your concern. Twelve matriarchs will make landfall. We have aligned ourselves with two factions who wish to expand their ancient holdings. Your place in this fight is refinement of biomass and the improvement of the hive. Do not forget it.”
My place? My place is on Earth.
Forget Earth?
Never.