Two months into the war, a discovery was made as to the method employed by the machine in the colonization and consumption of worlds. On the frontier world of XXXXXXX, near orbit radar detected what was initially believed to be a dense meteor falling to the planet’s surface. However, two days later, a full force began to siege human emplacements in a radius centered on the estimated point of impact. The theory put forth at the following military conference on Capitale suggested that the meteor was in fact an unpowered capsule with a previously unobserved type of unit designed to begin the process of full scale production.
Admiral Fontaine stands at the bridge of his capital ship, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder length apart. An ornate pistol sits in his hip holster, polished and gleaming. Gelled rows define his combed hair, which becomes his rich brown side burns, which in turn become his bushy mustache. His uniform is a shade of oxford blue, trimmed in a silver braid with two rows of buttons. Beside him is advisor Nithee, who wears a white robe with layered sheets and bronze bangles.
Nithee’s ventricles flare and pop, and Fontaine’s hand pops up and clenches into a fist. Without so much as a word, the pilot pulls back on the throttle, and looks up to the view screen, an act that is copied by every other person on the bridge.
Through a foot of reinforced smart glass, the sweeping disc of dusty grey rings around an icy blue planet is contrasted with the baleful light of a rust-red nebula behind it. And in the murk of the powder cloud systems of the planet, small specks like pores glitter in the light of the star behind the fleet.
Fontaine lowers his hand and provides a stern visage for his crew to contemplate when they look to him with poorly concealed unease. Advisor Nithee makes a noise like a bursting grape.
“Admiral?”
“Battle stations. Arm Torpedoes with EMP and nuclear options. Divert twenty percent shields to forward flak arrays.”
As his orders are transmitted through the fleet, the bridge begins to release its tension into the rhythm of combat prep. The Admiral is stoic, unreachable. A row of diamond pins on his breast indicate a proud service record. The edges of the view screen become dark with interceptor and fighter craft, wings folding into their most agile state.
The pores on the planet appear to darken, becoming fuzzy. Blue gas is dragged into the vacuum in a crowded moss by the incredible number of ships racing to meet the fleet in force.
“Brace!”
Light fills the sky in blinding bursts. The view screen dims automatically, and the flickering red fabric of an energy shield blossoms to absorb a flurry of projectiles. Flak and shrapnel fly in abrasive sheets of debris, catching stray torpedoes and shredding fighter armor.
As the chaos develops, Fontaine peers through the corner of his eye at Nithee. The Xalanthii advisor is still, giving no indications of concern. A flock of drones zips past the bridge, pursuing a fighter with extensive damage.
Nithee jolts, and turns suddenly, their face flashing red, their ventricles flaring and shuddering. The Admiral curses and turns to an officer at his side.
“Make ready for boarders! Close the bulkheads and prime turrets!”
The officer salutes and departs the bridge. A moment later, three heavy impacts rock the ship, and the shield blisters brightly.
“Admiral! Breaches in the hold, crew deck, and second portside cannon bank! Administering alerts! Shield experiencing heavy sheer drain!”
“Have a squadron clear us, coordinate with the crew for partial shield deactivation. Direct teams to the afflicted sections, equipped for rapid depressurization.”
“Sir!”
Nithee shuffles forward and grips a railing, swaying slightly. Fontaine reaches a hand out, but the advisor dismisses the concern with a wagging Tentacle.
“Admiral! Gunfire detected in corridors A2, F7, and H2!”
The officer falters and looks back to the Admiral, an ugly gleam of fear in his eyes. Fontaine can only glare and wait for the young man to turn back to his post. He understands full well the reason for the officer’s alarm. The corridors in question lead to key points in the ship: The Jump Drive, life support, and the bridge itself.
In spite of himself, Fontaine watches the progress over his shoulder, hiding his emotion when a report from life support declares the invaders successfully repelled. Nithee offers a gurgling wheeze that Fontaine recalls hearing on the rare occasions the individual expressed relief.
Outside of the ship, the battle is too close to call, but Fontaine is resolute, even as one of his allied dreadnoughts suddenly erupts in a blossom of indigo light, decomposing before his eyes as its jump drive succumbs to damage. The same fate awaits him, should the crew fail to defend their own.
“Corridors F7 and H2 clear of boarders! No word yet from A2!”
“Seal the doors.”
The bulkheads hiss as they are shut against the very first whispers of gunfire. Fontaine presses a hand to his face and rubs his mustache with his forefinger and thumb. One of the enemy cruisers takes a torpedo to the engine and careens to the side, jettisoning its fighters without hesitation before self-destructing.
Nithee looks worse for wear, beads of briny perspiration forming along the base of the vestigial fin at the back of the head. They jerk and quiver, turning in place suddenly and making a loud popping noise before taking cover behind a console. Fontaine shouts, crouching beside the advisor.
“Cover!”
The portside bulkhead explodes. Plasma and disintegration beams clutter the free air of the bridge. Nithee is an unhealthy shade of violet. Fontaine pulls his pistol and fires wildly over the console, clipping one of the boarders.
The soldiers are different from those used in ground conflict. One in three has a full length riot shield and a machine pistol. The others are decked in light armor, and carry short range disintegrators with an under barrel flamethrower. Their bodies are scuffed and scored with moderate damage, but their movements are precise. Fontaine ducks just in time for a spray of bullets to slip over his head. His shield steams from intercepting a handful of stray disintegration beams. Nithee slumps against him, and he is forced to prop them up before returning fire. Something is wrong. Between Nithee’s behavior and the number of boarders, something is very awry.
Fontaine manages a perfect hit in the shoulder of one of the more aggressive drones, severing the limb. He crouches down again, and glances at the advisor. He looks up, and sees something that sends a chill up his back, and tightens a knot in his gut.
Behind the defensive formation of the soldier drones, there is a figure, one he has not seen on the battlefield even once. It stands half a meter taller than the others, and has a head rather like a rectangular pillar. It holds no weapons, and seems to be wearing a cloak of rubber cables, through which Fontaine sees a completely armorless body. The figure seems distracted, and Fontaine points his gun, shaking with the certainty that this is a leader machine of some kind. He squeezes the trigger.
The bolt of white-hot plasma flies through the air, a comet of destruction. It threads a gap between the soldiers, spitting sparks as it nears the gaunt thing. The blocky head turns, and the bolt fizzles out of existence in a blink of blue light.
Fontaine stumbles backwards as the thing stares at him without eyes. The soldiers spread out into the room, and one neatly disintegrates the gun right out of his hand. All falls silent but for the tromp of metal feet and the pitiful gurgling made by Nithee.
The tall thing stalks right up to Fontaine and leans down, the black shine of its geometric head reflecting his face back at him, before it is lit from within by cerulean light. A young woman leans through the door, and calls out with a lightheartedness that makes his head spin.
“Is it safe, Zen?”
The voice of the machine is guttural, a growl of some electronic beast recently evolved to stand on two legs.
[All clear.]
The woman claps happily, and enters the room, swaying her arms and squatting down by an unblinking corpse, poking it with her finger.
She is pale, and seems to have faded tattoos of ever-branching angled lines and mirrored circles. Her hair is pure white, long and straight. Straight bangs hang over her bright red eyes. She wears a black tee shirt and tattered jeans, and flits about the room as if she is exploring a garden, sampling the scents of flowers, rather than the sight of fresh carcasses.
The machine leader turns away from Fontaine and crouches over Nithee, who has begun to convulse on the floor. Two of the soldiers approach, evidently keeping an eye on the Admiral.
[Hum. This one is actually surviving for a while. The last three expired before I was able to get close. I’ll need to develop something to remedy the condition without altering the physiology. Perhaps a mild paralytic.]
He extends his hand over the advisor, palm facing down. The tips of his fingers glow with blue light, and Nithee vanishes in a flash, just like the bolt from Fontaine’s pistol. The woman notices the Admiral and gasps, running over and grabbing his face by the cheeks. Her voice is silk.
“Zen! Zen! This one is so fuzzy! And you left him alive! Can I have him? Please?”
[What will you do with him? He is dangerous, even as he is.]
The thing turns and looks, and seems to wait on the woman with a nature that approaches doting. The look in her eyes is pure, innocent, genuine.
“I want him! I want a Tim of my own!”
The noise made by the thing must be laughter, a strange guffaw of intermingled voices. It seems more a composite recording of dying breaths. Outside the view screen, two more of the dreadnoughts are disabled. Seven more loud impacts rock the ship. The thing leans its head to one side.
[Him? I doubt he will be as long lasting as Tim has been. What will you do if he falls apart?]
“Won’t you rebuild him for me? Or, or, could you show me how to do what you did? He doesn’t have to be just like Tim…”
There is a prolonged pause. Fontaine hears more gunfire and screams from the corridor, the voices often getting cut short, becoming ghostly as their sources evaporate.
[Okay. We’ll take him back, and we’ll see what we can do.]
2,1,2167
Eliza,
I had a terrible dream last night. I was out on the mountain, alone, in the blizzard. I felt as if something was following me as I walked. I had none of my gear. I arrived at some kind of bunker, and got in, locking the door behind me, but it was as if the thing following me had been waiting inside all along. I woke up in a sweat, and Un’Ktehl said I had been calling your name.
Things have been quiet since Boggs. No sign of the thing that shot him. We picked up a signal on the scanner, Johnson says it’s our target. So we’re headed that way now. We updated HQ, but got no response.
Dinner was coffee and stew. Both were warm, but I’m still shivering.
Yours,
Frankie.
Seeds of Fear 