I crawl over to the new suit, wiggling into it as Kerrigan does the same. She’s agile, picking up my plasma rifle with the armor’s arms while stuffing spare rations into the suit with her own limbs. Like a greedy monkey.
Wait, how is she moving the suit arms? Is her tail doing that?
The reaper jetpack and twin reactors move over to the new suit, still running at half power. No spare reactors means that Kerrigan will be exposed to lethal radiation. For a world we aren’t allowed to irradiate, there sure is a lot of radiation. Who was dumb enough to nuke a mining world anyways? Even as the question enter’s my mind I groan, knowing Jim’s alien download will answer my question.
Annoyance tickles my heart, quashed by the surrounding noise. Nothing is moving. No artillery outside, no roaring autocannons or rolling Juggernauts. I have a moment of peace, time I can use to rearm and reassess.
Syrak-9 was always a mining world, but now serves as an intergalactic punching ground. Each month a new army is dropped onto the distant continent, a place that was long ago depleted of Solarium -where I am now- to participate in wargames that boil down to, you get to export one pound of Solarium for every acre of land you hold, but in alien units. Don’t ask me to convert hecataris to acres or volumes of alien frenulums to cubic feet. Metric to Imperial is bad enough.
All my flashtraining really communicates is more land = better. So simple, yet so impossible. Eight factions currently hold ground with only the Singularity, Technocracy, and until today the Tulverians actively trying to gain ground while the others hide within ancient fortifications, digging deeper every day. Better to hold a hundred acres for a thousand years than to risk your future for a monopoly. Especially when there are hundreds of warships waiting in orbit, ready to add their army to the economic argument.
Once a month the -nameless- caste grants permission for a single ship to enter orbit and secure a landing site. Of course, ship displacement is regulated so as not to pollute the skies with an endless legion of ever-engorging cargo freighters. Applicants must also be a warship with shields and guns, as the easiest way of eliminating one faction is to destroy the ship on approach, before it can land and deposit troops or fortifications upon the surface.
Fully half the deployed forces are some sort of anti-ship device., be they burrowed cannons capable of firing a single shot per month and spending the next thirty days recharging, or the grand bombardment arrays of faction headquarters, with more shields and guns than a fully armed Technocracy fleet.
How we were portaled in begins to itch. The Singularity cheated, which the -nameless- must know, but they allowed it anyways. They must want us to win. I pause, that makes no sense, the nameless don’t deal with base races like humans, in fact, they barely deal with races we would consider immortal, something about the void of understanding being too distant between a nameless and others. Like trying to communicate quantum mechanics to an ant, even if it could speak your language the insect would literally die of old age before you finished the preamble, and it has no concept of science or even the necessary schooling required to understand the foundational knowledge.
So client races exist as go-betweens. Acting as a path from the human to a metaphorical queen ant who devotes their entire existance to understanding a fragment of knowledge greater than themselves, and via that knowledge lift the base race. Becoming puppies who obey the -nameless-, a vaunted honor and probably why they haven’t bothered to give us their name. No, our victory or loss didn’t factor into the nameless’ decision, something else is going on here.
“Why did they want us to die here?” I mutter aloud, running through a systems check.
New suit, new gasmask, and new flechette pistol all work, each piece of my gear replacing the old. I’m locked and loaded once more. With our damaged gear already back in Alaea’s nanofactory for repairs. The only items I keep are the FNX and the combat knife, both tucked into my waistband. More to provide comfort than actual defense, as nothing on Syrak should be vulnerable to such a small autocannon or blade.
"Emotional support gun. Yeah, I like the sound of that." I say, giggling to myself.
Still, nothing is sitting right with me, like when you know you’ve missed something obvious about your opponent’s hand and haven’t figured it out yet. Metaphorically, i’ve scouted my enemy’s main at two minutes and see three depots in the wall, but no barracks. Cheese is incoming, be it a proxied factory or a ghost in the main three minutes from now. My heart begins to pound out the anxiety, working my problem.
First a Field Marshal is appointed, then we are portaled into the front lines without guns. This sounds like a terribly implemented terraforming project rather than a war. Logic that follows the ideal of spill enough blood, belch enough hydrocarbons out of missiles, and eventually nature will find a way to break down the corpses into flowers. I ponder the information I have, running through all memories of Syrak-9.
With hundreds of warships in space, weapons and taxi orders are strictly regulated. Except for civilizations with armies already planetside. To keep things interesting, each existing faction is allowed one resupply a month often coinciding with each other as that will split any fire from the ground. No matter what, there will be more soldiers sent, more blood spilled, and more war for the nameless caste to observe. For there is always a nameless ship in orbit.
I take a breath of silence. Even the Juggernauts outside seem to have been knocked out, and their systems are hardened against EMP devices of all kinds. That's why the 'wetware' is grafted into them in the first place!
First a Field Marshal is appointed, then we are portaled into the front lines without guns. This sounds like a terribly implemented terraforming project rather than a war. Human lives spent as biomass alone. Logic that follows the idea of spill enough blood, belch enough hydrocarbons out of missiles, and eventually nature will find a way to break the corpses into flowers. I ponder the information I have, running through all memories of Syrak-9.
With hundreds of warships in space, weapons and taxi orders are strictly regulated. Except for civilizations with armies already planetside. To keep things interesting, each existing faction is allowed one resupply a month often coinciding with each other as that will split any fire from the ground. No matter what, there will be more soldiers sent, more blood spilled, and more war for the -nameless- to observe. For there is always one of their ships in orbit.
I take a breath of silence. Even the Juggernaut outside seems to have been knocked out, and their systems are hardened against EMP devices of all kinds. Whatever slapped this continent is of greater technical prowess. Most likely a race more akin to the -nameless-.
Speculation suggests they enjoy watching other races die, or that this world -alongside hundreds of similar mining worlds- acts as a release valve. Somewhere competing factions use to expend their growing armies with limited collateral damage. Other cynics suggest there is no purpose in this wargame or life in general, and that the nameless are simply collecting intel on different faction’s armies and technology levels. But no one listens to cynics, partly because those melancholy assholes are the most uninteresting things in the universe. Like a damp sponge, lukewarm and wet, that you’ve accidentally brushed against.
Good thing we can wash away their squinch with solarium mining and the wealth such mining brings. That alone is well worth the cost of military divulgence.
A fusion reactor that runs for ten thousand years is well worth thousands of lives.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
A fact the Azhurai conglomerate takes full advantage of. Their territory hasn’t fluctuated in six hundred years, despite thousands of incursions into it. Gears turn inside my head. One of the factions detonated an EMP. Of the current competing factions, only the Tulverians would should gain a strong advantage, but the Singularity has enough Earthling weapons to fight off the iguanas with shovels and bullets. While the other factions would have to traverse Azhurai territory to reach us.
My silent pondering drags on for long minutes. Nearly a half hour of rebooting systems and replacing hardware. Or desperately scrambling to find what works. Outside the bunker artillery begins to land once more, walking closer towards the Juggernauts. Dumb rounds fired by eyeballs and gut instincts without any newfangled ballistic targeting assistance. While Juggernaut pilots shudder in their hulls, surgically attached to crippled treads, shitting ducks, only able to fire the most basic autocannons. The thought of those abominations sitting helpless as artillery crews zero in sets my heart a twitter.
Juggernaut pilots shudder in their hulls, surgically attached to crippled treads, shitting ducks, only able to fire the most basic autocannons. The thought of those abominations sitting helpless as artillery crews walk shells onto them makes my heart beat a little faster.
A pulsing that becomes pure pain as my heart is still sore from being tazered into rhythm. Damn Juggernauts trying to kill me-
Wait.
-Two Juggernauts were coming to kill me. Not one. My job is only half done.
“Lings! Go kill the nearest Juggernaut! It’s probably got guns aimed at our ramp so you’ll have to–”
The damn spinosaurus sprints headfirst out the bunker running up the wall like a meth soaked gecko, gone before I finish pronouncing kill. I’m ready to sense him die, but that is his purpose and will serve to warn Kerrigan and I of a functional enemy.
Who I find sitting against the nanofactory, helmet and chest plate open. Exposed to the radiation. A fact she seems to be unaware of. Since she’s sitting on top of the armor happily chomping away on ration packs.
“Saved you one Pfina.” She says, her tail darting into the suit and retrieving a chocolate ration.
She’s changed. Her eyes were always purple, but now ears poke beyond her hair, long and pointed. Like a space elf. Stranger still, her skin is now a dark olive, as if she’s a peeled apple and oxidizing before my eyes. So many questions run through my mind that I activate the suit’s scanners, giving her a full sweep. Kerrigan’s skin darkens a shade and the results nearly make me facepalm. She doesn’t show up at all, as if she has organic countermeasures to detection or is somehow absorbing my scans, and why the bioweapon didn’t kill her.
“Thanks Kerrigan.” I manage to say, kneeling in front of her, trying not to look at the plasma rifle in her armor’s hand.
After the day we’ve had, chocolate tastes amazing. Good enough I’m not bothered by the normal scents of trench warfare or the gutted engineers around us. We eat quietly. Not difficult considering my suit is the only working computer within sensor range.
>Terran Thena: Hey, can you scan the person I’m next to? I need to know how bad her radiation poisoning is.
>Executrix Alaea: Someone picked up my interference. That EMP might have been for me…
>Terran Thena: You got my suit working easily enough. Don’t worry about it.
The words trouble me as I say them, without Alaea’s warping engine we are long dead. I’d love to have her stop and protect herself, but Kerrigan is going to die over the next few days as her body falls apart. Radiation poisoning is a terrible thing. Skin will fall off in patches, cells dividing in a chaotic jumble until she’s riddled with cancer. Her hair will fall out, then fingernails, probably the tip of her tail as well. I still have the flechette pistol, if it’s bad enough I might have to end her misery.
Light blinks around Kerrigan engulfing her in an instant. Once more faster than I can blink.
“What was that?” Kerrigan asks, jaw moving in a more humanlike way.
I give her another once over, noticing more than just her skin has changed. How could I have missed all these changes? She’s six inches taller, with dark scales forming over her ladyness. Smoothing everything out, almost like a mannequin.
>Executrix Alaea: DAMN TECHNO IDIOTS STOLE MY CAT!
The venom in Alaea’s message makes me jump out of my skin.
“Ah! Oh, nothing, it was nothing Kerrigan, I’m just checking to see if you’re hurt.” I say.
>Matriarch Hygieia: Sad, no space pussies for you.
>Terran Thena: Can you not scream in my mind please?
>Executrix Alaea: Sorry. Did I just scan your Kerrigan?
>Terran Thena: uhh… yes? How bad is it? She’s a Technocracy bioweapon… right?
>Executrix Alaea: NO. She’s a meditation aid. Something to help races like mine learn to manage their powers as children like getting a puppy to teach your kid responsibility. Or, more relevantly, when a new mind gets stuffed into their body during some kind of resurrection ritual. Your ‘Kerrigan’ was supposed to be delivered a week ago! Those assholes stole a damn service cat! Well, it’s not really a cat, kinda. More like a warmblooded tiger lizard thing. With psychic abilities and the Collective just call them psychic aids.
>Terran Thena: She doesn’t look like a catgirl… More like an elf mixed with a scorpion.
>Executrix Alaea: Yeah, she's odd. Mutated into a humanoid shape. Not sure what to do with that or how it was done. In general they take on some characteristics of the food they eat, its an adaptation tactic so they can be shipped across the galaxy. Meditation aids like her are probably the best thing the Endless Collective Straingineers ever cooked up. So desirable we had to set a quota on how many they produce.
>Matriarch Hygieia: Wait… You are telling me I can make INFINITE KERRIGANS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
>Matriarch Hygieia: BEAM HER TO ME RIGHT NOW!
>Matriarch Hygieia: NOW!
>Matriarch Hygieia: NOW!
>Matriarch Hygieia: NOW!
-Matriarch Hygieia- has been muted.
>Executrix Alaea: haha. Idiot. You think a -nameless- restriction can be circumvented? We can't even think their name within the confines of our own minds! You won’t be able to make her without beating those mental locks. AND You aren't listening! Technocracy did things to her. She isn't a Collective bioform anymore.
>Executrix Alaea: Anyways… Radiation will heighten her abilities or uhm… mental emanations. If she hasn’t started glowing yet, she will, and it’ll be a good thing. Idk what the Novassholes injected into her, but she isn’t supposed to look like that. Does she talk? I beamed out the vials of acid in her spine and skull. So she won’t pop. Damn cyborgs. Shit. If she were normal I could beam her aboard and break out of this closet! Catnapping is ENTIRELY UNACCEPTABLE! This ought to be a warcrime!
I consider asking how a cat was supposed to help Alaea break out of the closet, but I'm suddenly presented with the image of cat shaped keyholes. Which would be entirely overconstricted for the young girl looking at me with sparkling purple eyes.
“Uhm wow. You’re healthier than I am Kerrigan. The suit doesn’t actually help you…”
“How will I carry all thethes- Ahem, these, snacks.” She says, tongue accidentally separating her lower jaw.
Her lisp is fading fast, only saying hello when her inhuman anatomy asserts itself.
What kind of alien cat could make a Kerrigan? I wonder, but decide to leave that thought alone.
Like our ration packs, some things should not be examined too closely. Instead we opt to salvage everything we can from this bunker.
Tremorsense alerts me to the dropping of ducks. My lings found the Juggernaut and have employed their claws fully. Slashing and hacking through layers of steel and armor, a process that will take them hours.
Fine by me.
Alaea aids our looting of the second nanofactory, increasing our manufacturing capacity and supplies. She also beams down a replacement arm for my suit, taken directly from the Engineer. As in, the engineer whose wrist computer has the ciphers for every crate and temporal lock in this supply bunker. A skeleton key to Christmas morning.
Stacks of open crates lie looted, like a peanut farm that’s been visited by a herd of hungry elephants. We have weapons, a manufacturing base, and a half hour later Hygieia sends her ‘defective’ soldiers to me. Four plasma rifle wielding, power armor wearing, human-collective hybrids.
[5 / 13 Mechanized]
Finally, I’m not alone.
More importantly.
It’s time to see what these marines can do. For they can only be called marines, because they were born on a ship, armored aboardships, and deployed from a starship, thus they are space marines in the most literal definition.