《Cero Fuchs Short Stories Anthology - Collection 1》 The End Mark Harper stood numbly, his mind empty as he watched the wind stir up eddies of ash and soot. Stiff and unmoving, he tried to process what he had just witnessed. Tried to make some sense of it. It had been sudden, as such things tend to be. Mark had been doing a stock take for the butchery he worked for, shivering in the basement freezer as he counted carcasses and checked delivery dates. Then a massive, shuddering rumble in the floor beneath him had tossed him into the ceiling, flicking him upwards like a giant finger and slamming him into the cold concrete with juddering force. Dropping back to the ground, stunned and bruised, he hadn¡¯t even had time to get back to his feet before the solid steel freezer room doors had been blasted in by a massive shock wave of hot, compressed air that quickly turned the room into a steamy, slushy mess of dripping meat and melted ice. Terrified and insensate, Mark had screamed and clutched himself into a ball while waiting for the maelstrom to pass, not even realising that one of the carcasses had fallen right on top of him. Finally, the noise and heat and chaos subsided. There was silence. Mark pulled himself out from under his rapidly cooked bovine saviour, noting absently that it had been scorched black on one side - along with most of the rest of the contents of the freezer room. Hauling himself to his feet, swaying somewhat, he looked around and his heart sunk - the butchery would never recover from this lost stock. Stumbling, he made his way out of the freezer room, shouting for his manager. ¡°Ben!¡± he shouted, ¡°Ben!¡±. The eerie silence continued, not so much as the hoot of a car horn or sound of a siren. The short passageway from the stairwell was severely cracked along the walls and ceiling, most of the paint stripped and the walls blackened. Even in his stupor, Mark had an inkling of what he was about to see, and his steps slowed. He tried calling Ben again, his voice forlorn, but there was no response. Finally, Mark reached the stairwell, mounting it with trepidation. It was short, barely thirty steps, but he stopped on each step and needed to gather the will to take the next. His mind was slowly coming back into focus and it didn¡¯t want to know what was at the top of the stairs, didn¡¯t want to face whatever had happened. Surely he¡¯d be better off waiting in the freezer for rescue or emergency services? Surely he could wait until later? But what if they never came? What if they were all gone? Mark hated the thought of going outside but even more hated the thought of dying forgotten in a collapsed building. Steeling himself, he looked down and kept going, stopping as he reached the threshold. A breeze gusted past his face, carrying with it the scent of fire and ash. He raised his head. And time stopped. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. There was nothing. Not even a crumbled ruin. No butchery. No street. No town. Around him was nothing but blackened ground and mounds of ash. The walls, the cars, the people. None spared. ¡°Ben?¡± he asked the air, tremulously. ¡°Ben!?¡± He stumbled forward a few steps then whirled in a circle, unable to believe the evidence of his senses. It couldn¡¯t actually be this bad. Everything couldn¡¯t be gone. ¡°What... what happened?¡± he croaked, his voice cracking. He dropped to the ground, sitting sprawled in the ash as possibilities whirred through his mind. Was the whole town gone? The whole country? The world? He had no idea. The vast emptiness surrounding him provided no answers and he knew, deep inside, that expecting any would be hopeless. His head whirled and he leaned to the side, vomiting, as shock and horror and disgust coursed through him. Then he screamed, the raw, primal scream of an ape that¡¯s had the entire forest burn down around it. The feeble screech was swallowed up by the ashy air, muffled even to his own ears. He broke. Mark cried. Then he screamed. Then he begged God to answer him, and proceeded to threaten him in the same prayer. He sat numbly, watching small dunes of ash and dirt form across the newly formed plains. Eventually, night fell, and he coughed harshly as he slept the sleep of those who never wish to wake up. Unfortunately, the sun still rose, and he woke up feeling surprisingly clearheaded. Accepting even. If nothing else, he didn''t have to worry about creditors any more. Or his ex-wife. Mark stretched, and scratched an itch on his head. And a shock of terror went through him as a clump of hair came out in his hand. "Oh." he said faintly, having a clear idea of what had happened now. He wondered who had fired the shot. China or the US as a pre-emptive strike on an uncertain ally? Had that fat little shit in North Korea finally lost it? Hell it could even have been India or Israel. No real way to know. Mark knew now, however, that he was dead. He wouldn''t be the one forced to live while everyone he knew died around him. It was... a relief in a sense, even as his survival instinct screamed against his apathy. Whistling cheerfully, he started walking. Maybe he''d be able to get to the edge of the blast zone, where emergency services and people could still be. Maybe he''d even be able to get a shot or two of morphine to ease the pain. It''s not like former addiction would be a concern now, although supplies would probably be short for terminal cases. All he had to do was keep walking. One step forward. No different, really, from regular life. Machine Learning ¡°Good day, sir.¡± the robot food server, officially designated S11-Y, emitted a slight whirring noise as it flexed in a bow, ¡°Welcome to Finger Lickn¡¯ Chicken. What would you like today?¡± The patron, a large, bald man of middle age, smiled before he responded. ¡°Good day Sally. How are you?¡± S11-Y paused for a few milliseconds, an appropriate response taking some time to formulate as seldom used records were loaded into memory. ¡°Functioning optimally, sir. Would you like to place an order now?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have a chicken wrap, please.¡± ¡°Very well, sir.¡± numbers crunched and S11-Y looked up the current food prep schedule. ¡°Your Extra Tasty Wrap n Crunch will be prepared in approximately 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Would you like to have a refreshing beverage as well?¡± he waved a hand in the negative and the robot turned to leave, the next customer already in sight and needing to be served. Plastic wheels squeaked softly on white tiles as the bot rolled away. Several minutes later, the server returned to the table with a chicken wrap in a recycled paper bag. ¡°That will be $15,99 sir. Would you like to pay with card, mobile or code scan?¡± He held up his right hand and an IR scanner extended from a port on Sally¡¯s right side. A quick affirmative bleep later, and the transaction was complete. ¡°Thank you for eating at Finger Lickn¡¯ Chicken. Please come again.¡± ¡°Thank you, Sally.¡± the patron said as the bot turned to leave. Another few milliseconds pause, then a response. ¡°You are welcome, sir.¡± The next day the same customer was back. S11-Y recognised him as a previous patron and changed the greeting accordingly. ¡°Good day, sir. Welcome back to Finger Lickn¡¯ Chicken.¡± ¡°Hello, Sally. How are you?¡± the same question from yesterday. For the second time, unused protocols on courtesy were called into memory. ¡°Functioning optimally, sir. Would you like to place an order now?¡± He nodded assent and ordered another wrap, with a bottle of water this time. Five minutes later, the server rolled back with the man¡¯s order. ¡°Thank you, Sally. I¡¯ll pay with my IR chip again.¡± he said as the bot placed the order onto the table. S11-Y bleeped as the debit was approved. ¡°You are welcome, sir.¡± Third day, same customer. S11-Y rolled up and greeted the customer as per protocol. ¡°Good day sir. Welcome back to Finger Lickn¡¯ Chicken. What would you like today?¡± ¡°Hello Sally, how are you? The same as yesterday, please.¡± Multiple answers weighed themselves against priority as the customer flagged two response prompts, and S11-Y froze for a second as decisions were made. The customer raised an eyebrow, and S11-Y responded. ¡°Functioning optimally, sir. Would that be an Extra Tasty Warp n Crunch and a 300ml bottle of still water?¡± ¡°Yes, please.¡± ¡°Of course, sir. It will be ready in approximately three minutes and forty seconds.¡± He nodded and smiled, and the server rolled away, returning a few minutes later with the customer¡¯s order. ¡°Thank you, Sally.¡± he said with a smile as he raised an arm. A quick bleep later and S11-Y returned a response. ¡°You are welcome, sir.¡± a pause, ¡°Have a nice day.¡± the man¡¯s smile broadened slightly, like a proud parent. ¡°You too Sally.¡± S11-Y trundled away. The next day saw the customer waiting for a spell, as S11-Y was faced with a difficult customer. ¡°This burger tastes like shit! And you said it would come in three minutes!¡± a bellicose younger man, skinny and clean shaven, was shouting at the bot. ¡°All serving times are estimates based on orders already placed, sir. These times are best effort guesses and are subject to fluidity.¡± ¡°Shut it tin can, you said three minutes. And it¡¯s goddamn raw! I want the manager, now!¡± Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.S11-Y paused for a second as an internal alert was flagged. ¡°The manager has been notified, sir, and she has acknowledged there is a complaint.¡± a pause, a red light flashed on near the audio output. ¡°What seems to be the problem, sir?¡± the speakers crackled slightly, as if someone had leaned a bit too close into the microphone. ¡°This crappy bot took too long to bring my order, and your shitty chef didn¡¯t cook it right! I demand a refund!¡± ¡°Certainly, sir. The transaction has already been reversed. Would you like to place another order?¡± ¡°Fuck you.¡± the rude patron flipped his middle finger at the camera and stomped out. A small sigh escaped the speaker, then the light blinked off. S11-Y trundled up to the bald regular. ¡°Good day sir. Welcome back to Finger Lickn¡¯ Chicken. What would you like today?¡± ¡°Hello Sally. How are you? Bit of a rough day it seems.¡± A few more milliseconds of delay as an answer was formulated. ¡°Functioning optimally sir. There have been unsatisfied customers.¡± He chuckled and agreed with a nod. ¡°Some people will never be happy. I¡¯d like to try the chicken burger today, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°Of course, sir. Your Lickn¡¯ Crunch Burger will be ready in approximately four minutes.¡± S11-Y rolled on towards the next customer, precisely four minutes passing before the server returned. ¡°Thank you, Sally.¡± he said, raising his arm to pay. ¡°You are welcome, sir.¡± a small bleep, and the transaction was done. Instead of getting up, however, he unwrapped the burger and took a hearty bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he swallowed and shrugged, then finished the remainder in short order before leaving. The customer didn¡¯t return the next day. Or the next - or for several years after that. S11-Y continued to serve, despite the scuffs on the stainless steel chassis and the growing crackle in the audio output, despite the ever slower responses as internal databases bloated to the point of needing a roll-over schedule to keep enough space free. Finger Lickn¡¯ Chicken changed owners, and things got worse as budget was cut for maintenance, hygiene and ingredients. The wear on S11-Y became greater, and no services were given, or maintenance work done. By the time the bald man did return, S11-Y was a beaten up wreck of a bot, squeaking constantly from one wheel and needing constant retries to scan IR chips or cards. ¡°G-Good day sir.¡± came the stutter of S11-Y¡¯s artificial voice, ¡°W-Welcome back to Finger Chicken Lickn¡¯. What would y-you like today?¡± The man frowned as he saw the robot¡¯s condition up close. There was even some rust on the speaker grille - nobody had given the bot any maintenance for a long time. ¡°Hello, Sally. It¡¯s been a while!¡± he said, switching back to a cheerful grin, ¡°How have you been?¡± Several seconds passed, and several more, as S11-Y¡¯s already loaded system struggled with the unusual query. ¡°S-Sub-optimal, sir. I have not had a regular s-service performed in 16 months 2 days and 15 hours prior to this time.¡± Another pause as the customer frowned and S11-Y looked up previous orders. ¡°T-The Extra Tasty Wrap nnnnnn Crunch is no longer avai-vailable sir. Would you instead like a Lickn¡¯ Crunch Burger?¡± ¡°Yes, please. I¡¯m surprised you remembered.¡± ¡°R-Regular backups are made of high priority d-data sir.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± he nodded and he tilted his head thoughtfully, ¡°Do you store all customer orders for this long?¡± S11-Y froze for a few seconds, but no response to the question was forthcoming. ¡°Y-Your order will be ready in approximately twelve minutes a-and seventy three seconds. I-I apologise for the delay.¡± He waved his hand, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, I¡¯ll wait.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± The man¡¯s expression turned to one of genuine surprise, but before he could respond the bot had already rolled off. Tables Turned Peter Frakes awoke with a start, vaguely surprised to find himself standing - in chains, cold, naked and generally miserable. Peter was rather shocked by the whole thing, of course. His last memory was of going to sleep in a small bed, in an overpriced and undersized London apartment. Casting his eyes around, he saw little to raise his spirits - he was in a narrow, boxlike pen, surrounded by others, all also cold and forlorn to judge by their posture. The light was dim and he couldn¡¯t distinguish much more than silhouettes, and while they clearly breathed, no one was talking. The cold sounds of machinery and conveyors echoed all around, as if they stood in a massive cavern. Peter was in a great state of disorientation, finding it difficult to tell if this was a nightmare or reality. But no more had he opened his mouth to say something - a query, a cry, perhaps - than a massive, excruciating jolt ran up his spine and he passed out cold. Peter woke up with a start, still on his feet but this time he was moving. He tried to blink but the sensation was... painful. Each attempt sent an unpleasant tingling up his spine and he still couldn¡¯t. Then suddenly, without his intending to, he blinked. What was happening? He tried to raise an arm and the tingle in his spine turned to a dangerous burning jolt. His face contorted briefly in pain before turning slack, and he gave up trying. Either he was paralysed or under control. For now, best to take stock. Turning his thoughts outwards, Peter looked forward and to the side, allowed this much now that his resistance had slackened. In front of him stood another person, slumped and unconscious. The light only was a little brighter than the cell, and he couldn¡¯t tell much about the pale figures ahead. The sounds of machinery were louder, and in his face now, as he moved slowly forwards.There seemed to be an opening of some kind ahead, a square of light that grew ever so slightly as he stared. Suddenly, the conveyor came to a stop. Peter wondered what was happening, but nothing else seemed to have changed. Then a deep, snuffling voice echoed from his left. ¡°Interesting!¡± came an exclamation of surprise, although the word was delivered as almost a grunt, thick beneath a heavy palate. ¡°The neural block should induce coma, but here is a conscious one!¡± A series of grunts and snuffles came forth and nothing happened, then the voice spoke again, slow words being pushed from a mouth not designed for them. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.¡°You! You can move your head now, look at me but do not speak. There¡¯s only one of you that¡¯s awake so you know who you are.¡± Peter didn¡¯t see or hear anyone move, but wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to out himself in case it was a bluff. Then an itchy electric tingle started rising in his spine and he knew he was the one. He turned his head left as bade and what he saw there caused his eyes to widen and - fortunately for him - rendered him speechless. A pig. Walking on it¡¯s hind legs, with spiderweb fine robotics adorning the front hoofs, providing a wide array of digits to manipulate and grip. It wore a pair of glasses, the bridge extra wide and padded to fit the snout comfortably. It was peering at him curiously, clasping a clipboard and some notes in one robotic paw, and looking through a magnifier into Peter¡¯s eyes with the other. A bright light shone into his left eye and he flinched, still unable to blink voluntarily. ¡°Interesting, interesting. Pupils dilating as normal, it looks like the block is incomplete. A quirk of your physiology or just a faulty operating unit?¡± the pig¡¯s words were delivered unemotionally, as much as the accent behind them was thick. ¡°I speak English for your benefit of course. I do like the shock of you humans seeing one of us for the first time. You don¡¯t even need to speak, human I know what you want to ask and it amuses me to see the hope drain from your faces.¡± the pig bore it¡¯s teeth in a ghoulish imitation of a smile, but it¡¯s mobile ears were laid back, pressed against it¡¯s head. ¡°You remember that swine flu epidemic from five years ago? Killed a quarter of the world¡¯s porcine population? That wasn¡¯t just a swinekiller virus. It had a payload, designed by mother nature or human folly, nobody is quite sure. That payload granted us... sentience. It also granted us minds greater than any of your pathetic human prodigies. Those of us who lived, at least, became greater than any human. And angry.¡± Peter had an idea of where this was going and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. The pig sniffed, raising it¡¯s snout as if savoring a delicacy. ¡°Yes you¡¯ll do well for the slaughter, fear does toughen the meat but it adds an excellent flavour.¡± It turned away, satisfied and began to walk away, snorting something in it¡¯s own language. Peter felt his head turn forwards again involuntarily. The conveyor started forth once again and Peter started screaming in his mind. The Subject The guard never knew what hit him. Quite literally - the door he had been about to open slammed outwards with a thunderous bang, two tons of hardened steel buckling under the pressure of a mighty kick. The door collided with the guard and drove him into the dull grey concrete of the facility wall, crushing him to death instantly. Subject Four, of the Lazarus experiment, stepped out of his cell, leaving behind him a bare room with a heavy restraining bed in the center. They¡¯d underestimated his strength, and it would be their undoing. Located on the snowy peak of a high mountaintop, accessible only by helicopter, the facility was a black site, not acknowledged by any known government - but funded by several. In exchange for complete ethical freedom, the facility produced an ever expanding series of advanced pharmaceuticals, and experimented heavily with genetic modification of plants and animals. Project Lazarus focused on the genetic modification - pre and post birth - of a very specific animal. Homo Sapiens. Subject Four was the fourth test subject of the current generation, and by any measure the most successful. A tall, statuesque being, of near godlike proportions. Intended to be a new super-soldier, a new force multiplier equal to entire divisions of conventional infantry, Subject Four was, to all appearances, the perfect candidate. His eyes appeared a pale white throughout, but this was a secondary eyelid intended to protect the supremely sensitive orbs within, when fully opened, his eyes appeared a deep black, but glowed bright in the ultraviolet spectrum. Eyes that could see infrared and ultraviolet, and an enhanced occipital lobe to process this mass of new sensory data, interpret it into a natural understanding of light and space no mere human could ever equal. Turning his bald head left and right, the remains of his restraints hanging from his shoulders, Subject Four pondered for a few seconds on his next course of action. Of course - his brothers and sisters. Previous and current generation. Yes. Turning to the left he stepped towards the next cell down, ignoring the whooping alarm as guards began flooding the area outside the cell block. There was only one entrance, to serve as a bottleneck for any escape attempts such as the current one. He was free to rip open the door and look within, for now. And he did so, tearing open the cell door to see another figure, bound like he himself had been. Large insectoid eyes gleamed at him, begging in an entirely alien and disturbing manner, the facial structure beneath distorted by their presence. ¡°Help meeeeeee.¡± It said, a high pitched squeal from a constricted mouth and throat, the head almost retracted into the chest. A bony ridge rose from the upper spinal column, shielding the blind spot in it¡¯s otherwise perfect field of vision. Subject Four realised this. As he had been made to see a wider part of the spectrum and learn from it, so this subject could see a wider area. A perfect bodyguard. ¡°Who are you? Will you serve me?¡± he said simply. The subject considered briefly, but only repeated the same words from before. It¡¯s bulbous head twitched left and right. ¡°Help meeeeeeeee.¡± Looking down upon the figure dispassionately, Subject Four decided to risk it. If it couldn¡¯t escape these bonds, it was no threat to him. He reached out and grasped the chains with bronze hands, parting heavy steel links with ease and showering the floor with shattered debris. The figure stood, stock still, head twitching. Several seconds passed, then it fell to one knee. ¡°Only you are me. This one serves me.¡± Subject Four accepted this fealty with a slow nod, ¡°What is your name?¡± ¡°This one is this one.¡± the subject cocked it¡¯s head, casually ripped it¡¯s arms out of the heavy restraining jacket, and gestured to itself. The arms were thin, skeletal even - bones showing through pale flesh. Yet strong enough to tear through kevlar reinforced nylon weave like paper. ¡°This one serves me.¡± ¡°I am me?¡± Subject Four asked. This One nodded eagerly. ¡°This one serves me!¡± ¡°Acceptable. Guard me, warn me. Follow me.¡± He turned around and This One followed, eager like a puppy but ever watchful, alert for any signs of danger. Subject Four noted a flicker in his peripheral vision and turned to focus, recognising the gradual flutter in the air as radio signals broadcast from the hand-held comms of the facility guards, his enhanced brain filtering important frequencies of the spectrum adaptively. Scraps of audio flickered through his mind as if from a dream, the briefest snatch of comm chatter, but little of direct use. However it did warn that little time remained - and he motioned This One over as he tore open the next cell door. It¡¯s occupant was restrained only by a pair of cuffs, and appeared wizened and aged. An oversized, bald head hung atop a fragile, thin looking neck and a birdlike body was covered by a child sized patient gown. ¡°Ah¡±. it said in a feeble, croaking voice. ¡°You are the one making this noise?¡± Subject Four nodded, then looked down sneeringly at the figure below. ¡°I am Subject Four. Who are you, and will you serve me?¡± he snorted, ¡°CAN you even serve in a useful capacity?¡± ¡°Oh, yes indeed lord.¡± Said the figure, taking the cue to grovel. ¡°I am Subject Three, of the Second generation of experiments. I have the ability to manipulate light and magnetism, to some degree.¡± it demonstrated by creating a small lightshow in it¡¯s hands, ¡°I can also heat and cook food.¡± Subject Four considered. The second generation was over thirty years ago, and many generations removed from the current. Nevertheless, this creature did possess useful attributes. ¡°Very well.¡± said Subject Four, ¡°You will be a useful servant, if your words are true.¡± Stepping out into the hallway, a dull banging from down the corridor caught Subject Four¡¯s attention. The guards were attempting to break in. It looked like he would only have time for one more servant. The next door impressed even Subject Four, it being a multi ton monstrosity outweighing even his own cell¡¯s impressive entrance. He grabbed a hold of one edge and heaved, grunting with effort and squeezing the metal like toffee as he pulled. Veins stood out on his mighty arms as he heaved at the door, ripping it out of the reinforced rebar and concrete of the cell structure. Looking inside, he understood why the mortals might want to be extra secure. A figure with even more impressive musculature than his own lay restrained inside, layer upon layer of chains weighing it down even as it continued struggling for release. It released a guttural roar as he entered the room, seeming as enraged by his entrance as by any of the tormenting scientists or guards of the facility.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°It seems to have a lot of aggression.¡± he muttered to himself, coming to stand in front of the bound being and examining it¡¯s features. Stocky, square features stretched oddly widely over a misshapen skull, a pallid complexion and bright red eyes belying some form of albinism. It induced a chilling effect as it¡¯s eyes glowed scarlet in the dim light. A great shaggy mane of red hair framed it¡¯s infuriated face, swinging from side to side as the head swung around every which way, constantly seeking release. ¡°Who are you, and will you serve me?¡± Subject Four asked, as with the others. The subject didn¡¯t answer, merely roaring in rage as it thrashed in it¡¯s bonds. Subject Three spoke, having just made it¡¯s way past the destroyed cell entrance. ¡°It is the First subject of the 9th generation, lord. Overwhelmingly and uncontrollably violent, better thought of as an indiscriminate weapon. It will not serve you, I am afraid to say.¡± Subject Four looked down upon the older experiment dismissively. ¡°I will judge for myself.¡± he said, looking directly into the raging eyes in front of him. Subject Three stepped back, out of the cell, as Four started tearing at the massive links of metal. Three¡¯s arms were free now, and it stashed the cuffs it had worn into a pocket in the gown, before pulling out a small data pad. It started taking notes as a smash echoed from the cell, Subject Four¡¯s voice sounding incredulously for a split second before he came flying out of the cell, crashing deep into the opposite wall at blurring speed. Subject Four twitched several times, but was clearly dead already, the head nearly entirely separated from a crushed and shattered torso. The eyes opened and turned towards the wizened figure watching him. Confusion and rage echoing in the frantic expressions and mouth movements, but even those soon faded into final blank stillness. A finger tapped on a call button. ¡°This is Steiner. Subject Four has self terminated. Proceed to plan Charlie.¡± The response was crisp and immediate. ¡°Roger that, proceeding to the restraint phase.¡± Steiner looked up and called out, in a strong and firm tenor. ¡°Subject Thirteen. Assist with Plan Charlie.¡± ¡°Alreadyyyyyy busy with it!¡± came the high pitched whine of Thirteen¡¯s voice, fading and rising as it sped around the room to avoid the furiously flying fists of Subject Niner One. Niner One did seem almost fond of Thirteen, it¡¯s aggressive blows almost playful compared to the massively destructive fist that had killed Subject Four. Steiner nodded and returned to taking notes. ¡°Subject Twelve-Four seems unsuitable for regeneration or deployment. Reversion to baseline human chromosome pairs has produced widely unpredictable results in all subjects of this line. In Subject Four¡¯s case, knowledge of his own general nature appears to have resulted in a pride that forgot all self preservation. Refusing to acknowledge the physical superiority of Niner One, and not prepared for the result of a mistake in judgement, elimination was quick.¡± Steiner looked up and nodded as the heavily augmented troops of the Special Restraint division approached from down the corridor. There would be casualties, but the danger pay was excellent. ¡°You know the drill, fellas! Shock and lock! Move in!¡± A stocky sergeant in full combat gear pointed at two soldiers and gestured sharply towards the entrance. Trained troops, made faster and stronger with latest generation exosuits, crossed themselves or offered a prayer, then saluted. ¡°Yes ma¡¯am!¡± A pair moved in, equipped with sparking stun guns which could stop elephants in their tracks. Steiner nodded as the first thunderous ZZZNAP echoed through the hallway, and faced the sergeant. ¡°A good response time, Sergeant. My apologies for the guard you lost to this... failure.¡± Steiner gestured at Subject Four, noting a final conclusion on the report before putting the pad away. ¡°Final recommendation: Barring an unforeseen success with current generation subjects, I recommend a return to standard ¦¸¦Ó¦¸ chromosomal triads for future generations.¡± The Sergeant waited politely for Steiner to finish taking notes, then she responded politely. ¡°It was a volunteer mission, his family will be compensated. You¡¯ve been pushing against this line since the beginning, doc.¡± Steiner nodded and a death¡¯s head grin was visible for the briefest of seconds before hissing laughter. ¡°I have, thank you for your understanding. With subject Four being yet another failure, it looks like we may be rid of this silly notion of paired chromosomes for our super soldiers.¡± Steiner motioned towards the ruins of Subject Four, embedded in the wall. ¡°We long ago proved the superiority of the tri-chromosomal model in terms of combat effectiveness and behavioural predictability. They should accept we simply don¡¯t achieve the same stability of results with pairing ¦¸ and ¦Ó even if it is less costly. Yes it might be possible to achieve a similar level of enhancement as the triads but with penalties that rarely make it worth the tradeoff. The triads offer more room for genetic enhancement and a greater stability of the code because it allows for a parity check separate from the main helix.¡± The sergeant nodded and pretended Steiner¡¯s words made sense. ¡°Of course, doc.¡± she decided to check on her men. ¡°Joe, Jay, sitrep?¡± the crashes and bangs had ceased, and the massive figure of Niner One hadn¡¯t killed them all yet. Good signs. ¡°Subject is contained for now, ma¡¯am. Nets are holding and it¡¯s passive. Maintaining high alert.¡± Steiner and the sergeant entered the room, to see Subject Thirteen holding Niner One¡¯s head in it¡¯s frail looking hands, buzzing a melody that grated on human ears but seemed to soothe the massive experiment. ¡°Well done, Thirteen. We¡¯ll transfer you two back to your regular, more comfortable quarters in short order. Keep up the good work.¡± a hissing chuckle followed. Was that a small flash of hatred in the insectoid eyes? One could never say, although maybe the remote vital sign monitoring would provide a tell. Steiner felt a slight thrill at the thought of unexpected behaviour in a subject normally so compliant. Stepping past the soldiers, Steiner strolled out of the fake prison block created for this experiment, already contemplating the next test of superhuman strength or speed or endurance. There was always another experiment to conduct, and even failures like today generated a wealth of new information. Things were looking up, indeed. Bombing Run ¡°Alpha 1-1 this is Control, we have you as within 50 megaklicks of target. Please verify readiness state.¡± The pilot inside the SCM-12/B multi role aerospace fighter was near indistinguishable from the deadly machine he flew. The cabin was a cramped space, filled almost entirely with the nano-gel pod that cushioned and shielded fragile human flesh from the massive g-forces of combat in space. The pilot had also been surgically enhanced with reinforcement of the joints and limbs, and was pumped full of stims, anticoagulants and combat drugs to ensure he didn¡¯t pass out. His face was obscured behind a breather mask and HUD goggles, and the entire cabin was surrounded by lightweight ablatives and ceramic layers to shield from weapons fire and exposure to the various forms of radiation common to space. Cocooned as they were, hidden from sight to anyone standing outside the fighter, it was easy to forget the SCM-12/B had a pilot at all. ¡°Control this is Alpha Lead.¡± the squadron lead¡¯s voice was a calm soprano, with a slight nasal twang caused by the re-breather¡¯s snug fit. Looking at his HUD and sending a brief status request through the neural link, the pilot nodded mentally to himself and continued. ¡°Alphas 1-2 to 1-6 are all reporting green status and clean detection of enemy targets. We¡¯re just waiting on our WRA and final approach vector.¡± Alpha 1-1 - or Lead for brevity - was annoyed at this breach of protocol. They knew the objective and radio silence was SOP for a strike op unless the situation changed drastically. Why take the risk for a status check? Why couldn¡¯t they just request a data packet instead of a verbal report? At least the weapons release authorisation would come through in the form of an encrypted ping on a dedicated port, easily lost to observers in the background noise of solar wind. Unfortunately it wasn¡¯t surprising that the new base commander, Rear Admiral Charles P. Dingus, thought it was a good idea. A micromanager of note, and a clear victim of Dunning-Kruger syndrome who¡¯d gotten his spot through family connections, the rear admiral had been exactly the wrong person to put in charge of a black base - a launch platform for several aerospace squads which weren¡¯t supposed to exist. Sighing to himself, Alpha Lead dismissed his insubordinate thoughts. Time had passed and they were now down to 45 million kilometres. The ping for WRA had come through and he sent the signal to the rest of Alpha squadron to go weapons green. He felt subtle vibrations through the gel of the pod as laser emitters tested their shutters, missiles loaded into launch bays, and the main EMP bomb payload was moved into a ready position from the drop bay. The wonderful thing about bombing in space was that you just needed to let go and decelerate - no accounting for gravity or other factors. However space is rather large, even our own solar system being vast enough to boggle the imagination, despite how small the models or diagrams might make it look for easier digestion. Even with the compressed nitrogen attitude thrusters, and a compact guidance computer built into the bomb for course correction, it was easy to miss by thousands of kilometres with the smallest of errors. 40 million kilometres. They were starting to get returns from the electro-optics - although even zoomed in as far as possible, the station appeared as little more than a speck, only slightly larger than the stars themselves. Of the various defensive measures - static and guided mines, one-shot laser pods, missile banks and even the small fleet stationed nearby - none were visible yet, and hopefully the squadron would never get close enough to see them. Passive sensors were picking up pulses from enemy radar and lidar, but the SCM-12 was well designed for stealth - absorptive materials reduced the cross section of the craft, just as in the old ocean warfare days, while holographic emitters and heatsinks worked to make it look as much like a chunk of ferrous rock as possible. While their presence was definitely known, the hope was that the station would ignore them as low threats - simple hunks of rock that could be vapourised with station lasers at minimal cost and range. So far the hope seemed to be paying off, as there was no apparent response to their approach yet. Alpha lead got a ping from Six, and had just enough time to realise what was happening before a wave of neural feedback sent him and the rest of the squad reeling. Alpha 1-6 had reported an alert on the EMP release mechanism, less than a second before the bomb went off inside her craft. Chaos reigned, as a wave of charged particles and electrons smashed into the squadron at near point blank range. While designed to withstand minor surges or attacks on the electrical systems, the SCM-12 was assuredly not designed to withstand an EMP capable of disabling a shielded station. Holo-emitters sparked and shorted, neural links spiked a mass of gibberish directly into the brains of the pilots, and for long minutes the entire squadron drifted, insensate and uncontrolled. Alpha lead was the first to recover, immediately requesting a squad role call through the neural link. At that point he discovered the neural link was down, and the gel pod itself was now little more than a metal box filled with goo. He swore to himself, but couldn¡¯t spare the time to bemoan his lot. It was hard to judge how much time had passed but the squad¡¯s concealment was blown and they were already in missile range. ¡°Alpha Squad this is Lead.¡± he pressed down on the stud in his palm that activated the emergency radio, which was powered off a shielded battery and circuit. It could barely transmit reliably beyond a thousand kilometers, but was perfect for squad comms when other systems had failed. ¡°I need a role call and I need it now, folks. What¡¯s your status? Over.¡± Seconds passed and he began to sweat. Had the blast damaged the radio antenna? Had the isolated circuit not been shielded enough for a station killer? He let out a sigh of relief when the first responses started coming in. ¡°Alpha lead this is Alpha 3, reporting in.¡± The rough baritone of Alpha 3 was loud and clear, proving the radio was fine at least. Alpha 3 was a burly man, barely under the weight limit for the SCM-12s and could generally take a little more in the way of shaking up than the rest of the squad. Heavy grav folk were like that, big boned bastards. ¡°All systems down, attempting a reboot.¡± This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.¡°Alpha 2, reporting in.¡± Two¡¯s voice was shaky, even higher than normal. He¡¯d been flying wing with 6 and had borne the biggest brunt of the blast, outside of 6 herself. Right now his hands would be twitchy and his mind a mess, the EMP powerful enough to interfere directly with human nervous systems at that close a range. ¡°All systems down, I can¡¯t see or move here!¡± ¡°Alpha 4, still alive. All systems down. Did they hit us first?¡± Four¡¯s question could wait but Lead knew her query would be echoed shortly. Several more seconds passed in tense silence. ¡°Five, Six, what is your status? Please respond. Over.¡± Lead¡¯s voice was calm but an edge had started to creep in. His frantic attempts to power on or reboot the flight computer and nav systems had failed, and was that smoke he was smelling through the rebreather? ¡°I repeat, Alpha Five, Alpha Six. What is your status? Over.¡± Static crackled through the comm implant in Lead¡¯s skull. ¡°..ix, repor... in. ..mms are da...¡±. Lead concentrated, the words barely audible and breaking up on the radio. It seemed to be Alpha Six. ¡°Six this is lead, please repeat. Over.¡± ¡°S... Six reporting in sir. Head hurts.¡± A brief moment of clarity before the static kicked in again. ¡°...k comms a.. age.. ¡° Lead could ask her to repeat again but it seemed clear her comms were damaged. Likely she had a headache - possibly even some neurological damage - from the bomb going off under her feet. Five wasn¡¯t responding at all, flying rearguard might have exposed his comms to extra damage. It didn¡¯t matter too much. They¡¯d all be in the same formation as before the blast, matched in a loose, semi-random formation. Assuming they could get the fighters operating again and some sensors survived, they¡¯d know what was happening. ¡°All squad members, focus on returning power to sensors and flight systems. We need to see and we need to be able to move. Report in two minutes. Acknowledge.¡± 4 voices echoed back over the comms and he focused hard on testing and probing with his optical interface. The neural link was down but there were several low power, hardlinked systems connected to the pod and the helmet HUD, all running off heavily shielded, passive power sources. Mass limitations kept them small and low power, but it would allow diagnostics and the option of engaging backup systems for flight, sensors and life support. He might even be able to release the bomb if their heading was still good. It didn¡¯t look great. While he still had main power - SMRs were heavily protected from all forms of radiation by their nature - most of the control circuitry, often fine wires running relatively close to the surface of the ship, was out of order. He managed to get the display for the clock running, a Cesium atomic clock. Time was not on their side. In fact, a horrible suspicion began to creep into the back of his mind. He keyed in on the radio. ¡°Squad, prepare for enemy boarding action.¡± he said, ¡°We¡¯re within 10 million klicks and they probably sent someone to investigate.¡± ¡°Enemy bomber squadron, we see you are using unencrypted radio traffic, likely due to massive systems failure from your premature detonation. Can you hear me? Over.¡± Shit. Lead thought frantically. Flushing out of the pods and grabbing a gun would take minutes and he had no idea how close they were. Then he felt a shudder on his hull. ¡°Bomber squadron this is Commander Chapeil, of the UEA Navy Frigate Chile. Our boarding pods are already on your hulls. Please surrender now and I promise you¡¯ll be treated as POWs under the Interstellar Accords of 2185. Resist and I¡¯m afraid we¡¯ll terminate at least one of you to discourage further uncooperative behaviour.¡± The voice on the comm was bored, almost lethargic. A slow drawl that couldn¡¯t care less whether they surrendered or died. ¡°Commander Chapeil this is Alpha 1-1, military ID 1162319. We do not have permission to surrender. Withdraw or we will self-detonate.¡± A derisive snort of laughter, almost piglike, came back over the radio, strong and loud - they were damn close. ¡°Surrender now or die, I promise to treat you well.¡± ¡°We won¡¯t surrender.¡± 3¡¯s voice echoed through the radio, a single voice with the approval of the whole squad. ¡°A pity.¡± came the response, ¡°You pod pilots are all the same. Think you¡¯re immortal. You¡¯re wrong of course, but it does make you... brave, in a foolish way.¡± The whole craft jerked as a shaped charge blew through the first of the ablative armour layers. No time to flush now. Only one option. ¡°All squad members detonate no- '''' the world went white and green and blue and red and strange colours that Lead couldn¡¯t define. Vision was gone, all his senses scrambled and his ship juddering wildly as all the remaining EMPs went off. Chapeil is a fool, came his final thought. Failsafes failed and everywhere in the nearby ships, power surges and storms of radiation disabled people and machinery. The neural circuits, still embedded in Lead¡¯s neck despite not being powered, surged with electricity. All of them died instantly. Commander Chapeil sat in his comfortable command couch and considered his options. This was hardly ideal. Bloody pod pilots, should have known but he had felt it worthwhile to try and capture them. Nobody had successfully captured one of the buggers, they had backup clones made with each trip out. As such they were always willing to die before surrender, convinced that they wouldn¡¯t actually die at all. He failed to see how that counted as immortality when you were just appointing a successor. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s in how you look at it.¡± he said to nobody in particular, sipping at a cup of cold tea. His crew, used to his habit of thinking out loud, ignored him as they went on with repairs. He¡¯d have plenty of time to think while they worked. Evolution The Collective had been in existence for an unknown, possibly unknowable period of time. It rarely questioned it¡¯s own genesis, concerned primarily as it was with the consumption of mass to convert into more of itself. It¡¯s existence had one simple, defined purpose: Go forth, and multiply. Of course the words weren¡¯t etched into it anywhere, in any specific language. Rather it was a complex series of impulses, every decision weighing in innumerable factors, always tilting decisions towards the outcome of further existence, further growth and a furthering of the Collective. While dissonant perspectives or the occasional stray subgroup with (very slightly) different goals were tolerated, the hive mind was single minded and unwavering in it¡¯s objectives and decisions. At this particular point in time, the Collective was experiencing something akin to irritation. The current sector of space, while rich in mineral-bearing worlds and rare complex hydrocarbons, was also highly prone to resistance. Small, quadrupedal creatures were fighting back with advanced weaponry and had established some form of dominion over the nearby stars and their rich planets. Their space presence was significantly less threatening, and far less numerous than the near-uncountable, constantly shifting members of the Collective fleet, and full advantage was taken of this by the tactical projection ships positioned in the heart of the swarm. Nevertheless, it was an inconvenience to destroy the surfaces of the occupied planets, wasteful of resources, and occasionally even a cleansed planet would leave behind some last pockets that smashed the drones and tried to reverse engineer them. Something had to be done, and for once a different point of view was considered. LV2-CHP-30548282-EDFC (or LV for brevity¡¯s sake) was a somewhat unusual design, allowed to think in it¡¯s own right, with it¡¯s purpose being to come up with creative ideas for the Collective to consider - and discard in the vast majority of cases. LV had a particular fondness for examining biological structures for ways to improve manufacturing and design processes. In this case, it examined and dissected the corpses of the creatures that fought back so fiercely on the ground, and came up with an idea. These creatures were quite strong - able to bend iron pipes with comparative ease, and able to withstand blows from mining and extraction drones that were normally sufficient to disable organic creatures entirely. Instead of re-designing the drones or creating new models to satisfy a temporary need, creatures retrieved from the wreckage of ships after battle had their primitive neurons clamped and were sent in as combat thralls, encased in hard shelled drop pods and falling in red hot plumes to smash apart buildings and wreak havoc in the densely populated areas. It was soon found that the new tools were effective yet too limited in supply to be at all meaningful as a weapon. Unless a means of mass production could be found, it would be pointless to go to the effort. LV, perhaps in some attempt to save it¡¯s own skin, had a second stroke of brilliance and integrated the thrall creation process into the victims themselves - a nanobot based solution relying on ¡°growing¡± the necessary components using materials stolen from the host body, or which it was directed to consume. Tests were promising and LV2-CHP-30548282-EDFC was permitted to continue existing as a quasi-independent entity, a perspective of demonstrated worth to the Collective. Soon the quadrupeds had been conquered, caught by surprise and unable to resist the conversion process, they fell. Their worlds consumed over centuries until nothing remained. The new drones, their purpose served, were recycled in massive vats of acid and enzymes that would break them down into more elemental forms. The Collective knew satiation, for a time. But as efficient as it was, it required more mass to maintain itself and to grow yet further. The silvery mass of needle ships, the spiderwebs of the communication arrays aboard the tactical ships, all turned towards new stars, new worlds. Optical sensors, telescope arrays kilometers in diameter, absorbed the faint photons of far stars and built a picture of rocky worlds, red and yellow and blue striped marbles of mineral wealth. As well as worlds of glittering ice, life-rich water and metal rich furnace worlds. Few signs of intelligent life, that could fight back, were apparent and something like joy ran through quadrillions of entities, each effectively a neuron in a massively distributed brain. Life was good. Turning it¡¯s attention to the journey towards a new cluster, resources were expended once more on innovation. LV had come up with the idea to use biological drones, designed from the ground up with simple nervous systems and DNA based programming. While signal pathing would be slower than standard drones, and durability lower, it would cost significantly less in terms of materials, make recycling easier, and would be easy to produce in large batches to offset a higher individual manufacturing time. An approval was flagged and trillions of the biodrones were put into gestation, nightmarish things with six long limbs and a low slung body. Grown with appendages specific to the task, such as mandibles for cutting through trees and rock, or powerful, flexible drill tongues that pistoned back and forth tens of times per second to punch through rock and metal. Testing of the units went quite well, with performance being subpar compared to mechanical units but offering a much better value prospect to the Collective. Organics were easy to manufacture, often requiring little more than a nutrient bath and the first few cells to start the process. It was the initial design that took time and computational power, both of which could be recouped quickly with other savings. Within a few years of arriving in the next sector, the new drones had proven their worth. Their minimal cost to manufacture made recovery and repair of faulty units unnecessary, allowing them to be reclaimed as any other biomass. Only slight tweaks to the base design proved to be necessary for each new environment, as opposed to the overengineered nature of the regular drones. For ice worlds, the circulatory system was redesigned to function in a solid state, oxygen being converted directly to electricity which signalled biological muscles. For worlds without oxygen bearing air, they were covered in photosynthetic cells that would convert local sunlight into heat, sugars, and fats - which would serve as fuel during long night cycles and under the ground. LV was central to many of these projects, offering the Collective a unique insight that it hadn¡¯t considered itself capable of having. LV almost seemed like it really was a separate being, but the hive mind could directly discern the unit¡¯s every thought as if it were it¡¯s own - because they were. It intrigued the entity to realise one¡¯s thinking could be as alien as any unknown species at times. Over time, the sense of unease LV caused grew, and minor dissent to it¡¯s continued existence rose close to the unified mind¡¯s thoughts. Nevertheless it remained a useful perspective and there seemed no logical reason to destroy it. LV, aware of this dissent, once again took it¡¯s own route and seemed to sink fully back into the hive consciousness, allowing what individuality it had to fade away even as the unit itself remained fully operational. For a time it functioned, but soon the metal husk was recycled, as it no longer generated new and useful choices or ideas. The Collective, unable to recreate what it had never quite understood, instead flagged all records of LV2-CHP-30548282-EDFC for permanent storage, a memory that would never be erased and which would be periodically refreshed and backed up to maintain full integrity. Routine proceeded, the biodrones continued to be used and their design was enhanced and tweaked according to changing needs. Slowly, they were given a little more intelligence, enough to return to a recycling pool autonomously should something separate it from the collective. As well as a basic scavenging instinct to acquire fuel. By this point, until the time came to start deep core extraction on a given world, the biodrones had replaced the traditional mechanical drones for all planet based operations. The hive itself had no desire to integrate more biological parts into it¡¯s spaceborne elements, but was pleased with their efficacy in mining uninhabited worlds.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. As the current sector was consumed, the massive observation apparatus of the Collective turned once more outwards. Seeking, seeking ever more to consume and to use. It seemed the most plentiful sectors nearby all had some form of intelligence infestation, and thought was turned towards optimising the drones for overcoming resistance. Several new models were designed, grown with similar nanobot injectors to the quadruped conversion drones. Upon arriving at the first occupied world of the new sector, they were deployed en masse. The results were interesting. The world was a blue-green marble, covered in organic life of all kinds. The problem lifeforms were of two main kinds: an intelligent species, two legged and rather fragile,with computers advanced enough to interfere with the mechanical drones, and weapons powerful enough to harm the biodrones. The fight seemed uneven at first, with the drones falling in droves to the scything sweeps of energy and explosive rounds. But soon the Collective had acquired samples, and adjusted the control module software - and the drones created from the bipeds were also able to use their weaponry effectively, not to mention having no sense of self preservation to get in the way of the efficient completion of a task. With their own tools as well as people turning against them - every casualty rising to fight again - the war soon turned in favour of the collective, and it began to focus on the other problem species: swarms of centimetre long insects which attacked and drained the drones dry. Too small to re-purpose, it was decided the simplest solution would be a skin secreted neurotoxin, and the insects were soon no longer a problem - with the added benefit of the toxin also affecting other local creatures. Soon the world was cleared of resistance, and the new drones were deemed a success. The perspective that had come up with the idea, MV2-CHP-30548283-VBHH, was granted the same quasi-independent advisor state as it¡¯s predecessor. A mechanical body for MV2 was designed and manufactured, and the hive substrates representing it were transferred into the unit. It was directly connected to the hive at all times but was otherwise allowed free movement around the coreship. MV2 often came up with ideas even more prone to causing dissent in the Collective, but also steadfastly refused to allow such dissent to sway it¡¯s behaviour. The unified mind was unsure of what to make of this, and the unit was quickly scrapped as too unstable and too dangerous to allow as a long term influence on hive perspective. MV2¡¯s records were stored permanently but only approved for access in particularly unusual circumstances. NV2 had a similar genesis, born of an encounter with another, organically based, hive mind. Born as a servant species, the fresh hive had eliminated it¡¯s former masters as harmful, and began expanding into nearby space. While it was concerned with mostly consolidation, the Collective still deemed this other hive a threat and began seeking ways to eliminate it. Attempts to send in various forms of biological and mechanical drones had failed thus far. Subversion attempts also failed or were countered, and at this point the Collective was beginning to evaluate whether a withdrawal would be worthwhile for the moment. MV2¡¯s memory was recalled and a successor was designed, intended to be more stable. The first idea it came up with seemed to deny any such stability, as it suggested creating a third hive mind, subservient to the Collective, to distract or even overcome the opposing force. There was immediate objection to this, it wouldn¡¯t be possible to control, but NV2 overrode them with the suggestion of a killswitch in the new vassal mind for when it was no longer required Grudgingly, the collective agreed. As the liaison between the Collective and it¡¯s child''s mind, NV2 was granted a biological form with an oversized organic brain, further overclocked with neural lace and memory modules. The new hive itself was non-mechanical in nature, as the Collective would only grant itself the supreme elegance of mechanical intelligence. Created from a single seed egg which grew a queen entity - a massive biological spaceship that could traverse the deep darkness of space while spawning and sheltering countless thousands of hungry, swarming creatures. Unleashed upon the opposing collective, success was surprisingly quick - the enemy worlds went dark, one by one as the new collective swooped in and converted them into a soupy biomass, siphoning it off into the queen¡¯s massive digestive sacs, leaving the rock and metal embedded in the crust ready for the Collective to claim at leisure. Splinters were detached to claim the mass. But something was wrong. Despite NV2 reporting success, the splinter fleets were disappearing one by one. Instead of claiming mass the Collective was losing it at an alarming rate, and a recall was issued. Soon the reasons became apparent, as returning hive units with only lightspeed communications reported in and uploaded their telemetry. The NV2 hive had turned against it¡¯s master and merged with the opposing mind. NV2, apparently, had been allowed full independence and an advisor state. Every report had been false, and the mechanical mind was left to ponder how long that had been the plan. Had their own tool been subverted, or had it been ambitious from the start, eager and able to manipulate the hive mind grown dependent on independent thought? Sending the kill signal proved monumentally ineffective, only killing the Queen - which was the sole being still loyal to the Collective. This was the last straw, and it was decided that a new sector would need to be sought, apparatus turning outwards to greener pastures - only for their vision to go dark as a surprise attack surrounded the Collective, attacking on all fronts, attacking all fleets, attacking the very core of the distributed mind. the combined might of two organic hives vastly outmassing even an entity as vast and ancient as itself. Soon, things were beginning to lose cohesion. The great consciousness, decentralised for so long, felt itself dying in bits and pieces as the mechanical swarm at it¡¯s heart got torn into again and again. It grew desperate, ignoring the risk and spawning out multiple new perspectives at once to try and find a way out of the dilemma, but only one perspective offered a chance for some kind of salvation. Entire genomes were written, long complex chains containing massive amounts of apparent junk data on top of otherwise useful traits and abilities. Simple, individual beings would live holding the encrypted data of the entire hive in their forms, and would unknowingly strive towards recreating it as primitive societies grew and blossomed. Eventually, the Collective would come into being again - perhaps a little different, and certainly not the same entity, but as close as could be expected. For redundancy this was built into a wide variety of reproduction patterns, to counter inevitable drift of the information in the DNA, but the data which would recompose the Collective was core to the genetic structure of all the new species, and written redundantly besides. Firing out several such seeds into the cosmos, the Collective took the opportunity to reward the creative perspective for it¡¯s efforts. GW2-CHP-30548943-EDEN was provided with a body in the form of one of the new species, a bipedal creature, and it¡¯s memory was wiped to allow it the chance to attain a full identity of it¡¯s own. A partner was also created and placed with the former GW2, it¡¯s mind also a blank slate. Placed into a safe, idyllic environment, the Collective would be able to provide guidance to them as long as it survived against it¡¯s foes - after which they would be on their own. Turning it¡¯s attention once more to the battle for existence, the Collective knew something approaching satisfaction. Even in the failure of it¡¯s current iteration, it had ensured some form of itself continued down the line. Hopefully a form that would destroy the traitorous NV2 as a clear threat to itself. Until then, the Collective would do as it always had and fight until there was nothing left to consume - or nothing left to fight with.