Claye Eligah

  Now that he needed it the most, he noticed more how his health was failing him.

  It hadn’t worsened. Not really. The diagnostics were annoyingly consistent.

  Stable markers and acceptable degradation curves; nothing that justified panic.

  But stability meant little when every breath had to be budgeted against urgency, when the margin for error had collapsed to a few hours and one bad decision.

  He remained upright on habit more than strength.

  Spite filled in the gaps. Old anger, refined by decades of command, was sharp enough to keep him functional when his body refused to cooperate.

  The meeting with Ethan Scott had come earlier than expected.

  Too early, frankly.

  He hoped to leave the old soldier alone to figure it out for a while, but it seemed the stars didn’t align.

  Before it all, City 29 was already a civilian nightmare, as you’d expect from any place run by pirate gangs.

  Now, refugees strain an already failing infrastructure.

  Pirate activity remained statistically unacceptable. Internal security was a balancing act between deterrence and escalation, and Claye did not have the manpower to absorb another variable.

  Master Chief Scott had offered to take the refugees.

  Claye had said yes.

  Not because it was safe or advisable, but because it was the only option that could actually save them.

  Master Chief Scott had quite literally more eyes and more bodies. And a control option.

  The expected outcome was obvious: assimilation.

  Machine-hybrids. Efficient, irreversible, ethically questionable, but strategically sound.

  It hadn’t happened.

  Not at scale.

  Reports from Tessa were… odd.

  Some civilians had joined the collective voluntarily. No coercion. No mass conversion. Numbers remained small. Statistically insignificant, even.

  Which made them interesting.

  Ethan Scott was not behaving like a man optimizing for conquest. Which was good, all considered.

  The pattern was more akin to watching old footage from the times where survivors camps had to be established by the militaries on Earth.

  It was almost textbook, if one didn’t consider the horror of the things that allowed it to work.

  CTP, however, was a variable that needed more weight.

  The thought surfaced again as Claye reviewed the tactical overlay projected above the command table.

  The appearance of the WCS Arbitrage and its methodical approach, with expeditions and trade, remained beyond his abilities to fully quantify.

  Not with the current sensor readings and means of information, at the very least.

  But he knew them, boy, if he knew them.

  CTP followed margins. They maneuvered for profit.

  Which meant something here had crossed from risk to opportunity.

  Claye was in the process of quantifying that assumption when alarms tore through the structure.

  Not the sharp, modern alerts he installed. These were older. Deeper. A layered howl that resonated through stone and alloy alike.

  The old civic alert of City29.

  Consoles flickered as systems long dormant clawed their way online, power signatures cascading through networks that hadn’t carried a meaningful load in decades.

  The building groaned.

  Claye did not flinch. He straightened, spine protesting, eyes already tracking the change vectors as the tactical overlay redrew itself in real time.

  The old Imperium architecture was waking up.

  -Command to all personnel- he said calmly into his comm. -Prepare for building shift. Repeat, prepare for building shift. This is not a drill.-

  Outside, the defensive dome began to close.

  It was imperfect. Patchwork repairs were visible even at that range, scars from an age that had never intended to be revived. But the hemisphere was sealing nonetheless, a vast arc of metal settling into place over the tower and the surrounding strata.

  Dexton had made his move.

  Claye allowed himself a thin smile.

  -So- he murmured, watching the ancient systems align. -You finally committed.-

  This wasn’t escalation for its own sake. Dexton wouldn’t waste resources theatrically- not when every asset mattered. Activating Imperium defenses meant he expected pressure. External, internal, or both.

  So the other possible hive mind activity was that bad.

  CTP involvement may mean that someone, somewhere, had guaranteed a return.

  -Update priority queue- Claye ordered. -Civilian protection remains Tier One. Keep pressure on the beast activity. Pirate threat unchanged. Flag CTP movements for reconnaissance. I got hints that they trade weapons and samples. I want facts, not guesses.-

  He paused, then added:

  -Dexton himself is back in the game, stay sharp for light cruiser signatures-

  The tower settled into its new configuration, ancient geometry locking into place around him. Outside, the city continued to endure—unaware that the board had just shifted.

  Claye Eligah breathed through the ache in his chest and let the alarms fade into background noise.

  One crisis at a time. Everything else could wait its turn.

  Zhxtraxak

  Working under duress was not enjoyable. That much was obvious, and it did not require reflection to reach that conclusion.

  Zhxtraxak had long ago learned the difference between pain that could be endured and pain that demanded action.

  This situation sat awkwardly between the two.

  He could still move. He could still think. That alone placed him above the threshold where panic became useful.

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  Gaxxion had been badly wounded but was still alive; that was a relief.

  The crew, what remained of it, had survived as well. None of them were eager to be here, deep beneath layers of machinery and alloy, repairing damaged systems under the supervision of things that no longer needed to breathe.

  He couldn’t stress enough to his companions that they were alive. They were still themselves. The alternative presented itself regularly.

  Draxx. Haxxar.

  They did not speak. They did not issue commands. They did not even look directly at the work unless something went wrong.

  Their presence alone was sufficient.

  Once, Draxx had been loud. Brash.

  The sort of overseer who enjoyed hearing his own voice echo in confined spaces.

  Haxxar had laughed often, sharp and unpleasant, especially when someone bled.

  Now they stood apart, motionless unless required, limbs reinforced with dull metal plating that caught the work lights without reflection. Their eyes tracked movement with mechanical precision, but nothing else remained.

  They were simply… repurposed.

  No, they weren’t themselves anymore. Whatever they had been stripped of did not leave a wound you could point to.

  It left an absence instead. Their will, if they still had one, was completely overridden.

  They were there to demonstrate the boundary.

  Zhxtraxak understood boundaries. He had enforced them often enough in his own past. This one was simply clearer than most.

  Work, comply, remain useful — or lose the parts of yourself that can argue.

  Or did they? Truth gnawed at him. The comparison that he could make.

  He found himself watching the speaking hybrids more closely than the silent ones. The ones who still used words, like Xyra or Q?l?th?s, who still responded when spoken to.

  Who acknowledged questions, even if they didn’t always answer them directly.

  What, exactly, separated them?

  He had asked himself that more than once, always quietly, always without moving his lips. The thought crept in when exhaustion slowed his hands, and the machines stepped in to carry what he could no longer lift.

  Maybe it was simply timing. Maybe it was a willingness. Or maybe it was something subtler — something that aligned too cleanly with what Xyra had said to him once.

  A clean purpose without contradiction.

  At the time, he had taken it for reassurance. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The machines were reasonable. That, of all things, made the situation worse.

  They allowed proper meals. Not compressed rations or nutrient paste, but real food with texture and flavor.

  They enforced rest cycles based on measurable fatigue rather than quotas. They adjusted workloads dynamically, assigning machines to tasks when organic limits were reached.

  No slaver would ever do that.

  Even when some of the crew slowed deliberately, a quiet, shared form of defiance, the machines did not retaliate. They compensated.

  Efficiency without malice.

  Zhxtraxak had spent a lifetime believing those two things were inseparable.

  The tunnel shook without warning.

  It was not the distant rumble of weapons fire or the steady vibration of heavy machinery. This was deeper. A rolling tremor that seemed to come from everywhere all at once.

  Several crew members froze. One screamed.

  Zhxtraxak felt his own muscles tense, instincts screaming for threats that were not visible. The machines reacted first. They moved with sudden purpose, bracing support struts, reinforcing weakened sections, and positioning themselves between workers and unstable walls.

  The ground heaved again.

  Cracks spidered across the tunnel ceiling. A slab of metal the size of a transport vehicle tore loose, dropping faster than thought allowed.

  Zhxtraxak saw D?e?? stumble. He did not remember moving.

  By the time his vision caught up, Q?l?th?s was already there.

  The Elerian hybrid caught the falling mass with both arms, limbs sinking into metal both ways as the weight hit.

  The impact would have shattered bone. Instead, the chunk of metal stopped dead, suspended above D?e??’s head as if reality had reconsidered.

  For a moment, no one moved.

  Q?l?th?s shifted and eased the slab aside with controlled effort, setting it down as carefully as one might place a fragile object.

  D?e?? stared at the space where he should have died.

  Zhxtraxak felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

  He had laughed once, years ago, at the idea that an Elerian could stop even a pebble thrown its way.

  The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp and unwelcome.

  Strength without hesitation. Reaction without doubt. A body that answered intent faster than fear could interfere. Yeah, clean purpose without contradiction.

  Around them, systems began to hum.

  Lights flickered, then stabilized. Emergency luminescence traced along tunnel walls as deeper mechanisms engaged.

  The machines paused, listening to something Zhxtraxak could not hear.

  Another tremor followed, grinding noises, something was shifting down below.

  The hybrids simply adjusted their formations, silent and precise.

  -It is best we go back. Your companions will be brought back to their cells. Ethan wishes to speak with you. You will meet in … a safe space.- said Q?l?th?s.

  Zhxtraxak realized, with a sinking clarity, that whatever was occurring above them was far beyond his reach.

  Worse, he had commanded a squad of sacrificial pawns. Now he had to negotiate with somebody who controlled monsters.

  Zhxtraxak exhaled slowly, aware only then of how tightly he had been gripping his tools.

  Here's my dragons in space. I won't be participating in the cover contest, but if you drop by, please give it a read and let me know. If you like it, it will be published every Saturday.