I don't need my head to hear the squadlink. It's built into my chest, linked directly to my mindbox. Boreas snaps out an order. The squad drag me out of the room and down a series of tunnels before taking up defensive positions. Weapons are out. Trigger fingers are ready. I am useless. The Genocide Seed uses spikes to protect itself. If it's near, it'll send zants to investigate the explosion. At least I'm not dead, not yet. I ignore the pain in what remains of my head and feel for my pistol. Somebody slaps my hand. I take the hint, lie still. It's not like I can see, anyway. My fingers explore the remains of my skull. It's ruined. No ears, craters for eyes. Only the squadlink built into my chest let's me know what's happening around me.
There is no sign of the enemy. Deimos complains about me. Hef suggests we bring bigger guns next time. Phobos makes a joke. Deimos laughs. We wait to see if we'll die.
"Sorry, everyone," I say over the squadlink.
"Forget it," Hef says.
"You should be sorry, rookie, you idiot," Phobos says.
"Yeah, you're going to get us rebooted, and you know how I hate that. Captain Saturn will make us come down here and recover our own dead bodies as punishment," Deimos says.
"Quieten down," Corporal Boreas orders, putting an end our bickering.
Ten minutes pass. No zants. Either the Genocide Seed isn't down here, or we got lucky and it didn't detect the explosion. I begin to relax.
‑ Alert: The damage to your body is critical. Seek help immediately, an electronic voice says directly into my thoughts.
‑ Guide! Where have you been? I think.
‑ Information: I was damaged in the attack. I am now fully functional.
My guide sounds calm, unmoved by its own brush with death. I consider my guide's return with mixed emotions. Guides are our intellectual multitools. They sit in our minds, seeing everything we see. Knowing our thoughts. It's uncomfortable. I'm not always proud of the things that happen in my head.
Guides never judge and seldom comment. Mostly they provide information or alerts. They're designed to save lives. Sometimes they do.
‑ Alert: The damage to your body is critical. Seek help immediately.
It's a classic guide statement: entirely accurate, utterly useless. My squad is waiting for an attack. My dying is a distraction they ignore.
I don't blame them.
Our current bodies are only ammunition in this war, to be spent and discarded as needed. Single‑use. Their destruction will mean the loss of our current mindstates, but we made backups before we left the base. We can be rebooted.
Death is temporary.
But knowing this is not the same as accepting it. The human mind is more instinct than reason. I don't want to die. Not down here, in the darkness. Not even for a moment.
I try to move. Somebody kicks me. Phobos, probably. I lie still.
Five minutes pass.
"Let's move," Deimos says.
"Not yet," Boreas says. "Standard protocol is to wait ten minutes."
The twins grumble, but stay in position. Another five minutes pass. My guide gets an emergency sensor in my chest working. I can see again. Still no zants.
"Looks like we got lucky," Phobos says at last. "Pay more attention next time, rookie."
"Yeah, try and keep your head in the game," Deimos jokes.
Everyone groans, except Boreas. He's too busy checking in with command to notice. Phobos points at Hef. They pull out sensor pods to investigate the remains of the spike.
"Come on, lighten up! That was funny," Deimos says.
They ignore him.
Boreas finishes his conversation with command, steps over me to see the spike. Someone gently grabs the remains of my head. They pull hard. My neck severs, a fierce pain that quickly fades. They place a new head on my shoulders. Vision floods back. I look up to see our squad medic, Specialist Erratos. He smiles, lays a medipack on my ruined chest. The pack dissolves, flows, forms new flesh. Solid. Strong. Ready.
‑ Alert: Damage is no longer critical. Optimal function will return in two minutes.
I'll survive.
"Shall we drift from this nightmare labyrinth together, sweet friend, and dream of the sun's warm embrace?" Erratos asks.
He always speaks like this. Nobody makes fun of him for it, though. Not twice. The twins don't allow it. I like Erratos immensely, although he cheats at cards.
"Are you … asking me if I'm okay, Erratos?"
He nods, staring into the distance, his black eyes full of memories of better days, of loved ones left behind. He's wistful, filled with sorrow. Or he's checking my damage report. I can't tell. Combat body faces are hard to read.
"My guide says I'll be fine."
I turn my attention to the spike. It's the first lead we've had in weeks, the first sign to suggest our enemy is down here. Hef pokes around in the crater the spike created in the wall. He uses a toolkit he designed himself. The twins stand guard. Corporal Boreas watches.
"This is work for a trained demolitions expert," Boreas says. "Like Specialist Deimos. That's the protocol. Swap."
"You know Hef's better at this than I am," Deimos says, not moving.
It's true. Hef has an innate talent for explosions. His human body has a prosthetic arm and leg. One eye. He's gotten better since then.
"Fine," Boreas says. "I'll sign Hef up for the training when we get back to base."
Hef pokes around a little more before shaking his Kobold head.
"No idea," he says. "Could be fresh, could be old. No way to know."
"Good work," Phobos says. "Really useful. We're so glad you two rookies could come along to help us out today."
Hef shrugs. Phobos couldn't do better. She knows it. We all do. Hef packs up his toolkit in silence. I can tell he's annoyed. We've been friends since basic training. We were accepted as Pointers together, joined the same squad, put up with the twins' hazing. They like him more than me.
"If the zants are placing spikes, the Genocide Seed might be down here," I suggest.
"Oh, it's definitely here, rookie. This is the perfect place for it," Phobos says with confidence.
"Because these tunnels offer great protection?"
"No."
"Because of the resources it can steal from the city above, Phobos?"
"No!"
"Then wh—"
"Because we're in a sewer and the Genocide Seed is a colossal shit."
Deimos laughs.
We move on through the tunnels. Deimos takes point. He finds another spike, so recently laid that the sewer is yet to tarnish it.
"This one is fresh," Deimos says. "Boreas, call it in."
"Quickly," Phobos adds.
Boreas hesitates. He's the corporal, the decision is his. But the twins are right. He calls command. The rest of the squad wait in silence. There's no more arguing, not now. We're too excited. Finally close. There's a new energy in the squad. A wild energy, fearless. Deadly.
We follow a tunnel downward, water around past us. It's loud, like a waterfall. The sides are smooth. Dangerously steep.
"It's the universe's worst water slide," Deimos says.
He slips down. We follow. The tunnel spits us out into a cavern, wide but low. Zants have carved pieces out of the metal sewer pipes with no concern for their function. Broken pipes and pools of water lie everywhere. We shelter behind them, assessing the situation.
"Contact," Deimos says. "Zants, lots of them."
A line of zants roll past us. They tower over our Kobold forms, fat, long bodies, bloated, protected by metal scales. Tracks instead of legs. Wide heads filled with short‑ranged cutting lasers. They're workers, for the moment. Good. We watch them cut the metal pipes into pieces and carry them away.
‑ Alert: Zants detected. Analysis: Retreat is suggested.
I ignore it. Analysis alone never won a battle. That's why guides ride in the passenger seat. Kobolds are scouts. We don't have the firepower to take on the Genocide Seed or its army of zants. Our role is to locate the enemy for the big guns upstairs. We just need to survive long enough to do it.
"Fear not, good friends, for a single David did slay the Goliath, yet we both are six and braver, so let us descend into battle in good cheer, sure of—"
"I'm pretty sure Goliath didn't have plasma bolts or nanofield armor," Phobos says.
"Focus, squad," Boreas says, irritated. "Move into the—"
The twins are already moving. The rest of us follow. I raise my pistol.
"Quietly now," Boreas says.
We don't need reminding. Stealth is the only card we have to play. We'll never win a firefight with the zants. Not if they trade their mining heads for fighting ones. It wouldn't take them long. I clench my pistol.
We creep into the dragon's lair.