Zants hang from the ceiling. They scuttle along the walls, mass on the ground. Thousands of them. Their insect‑like bodies shiver in the darkness. If I were still in my human body, my heart would be racing. My hands would be sweating so much I'd drop my gun. I'd be breathing loudly. The zants would hear me. I wouldn't be able to think for the fear. But I'm not in a human body. I'm in a combat body. I'm tense, nothing more. I have no heart to set racing, my hands can't sweat. No lungs. Instead, I have a skin that merges with the shadows. The claws in my feet retract; I make no sound as I walk.
A zant scuttles toward us. We freeze. It passes. We continue. Pointers are trained to be wraiths in the enemy's castle, vipers in its nest. Beyond rescue. Tasked with killing one of the universe's most evil creatures. This is what I left Earth to do. This is what I love.
"Command needs us to get eyes on the Genocide Seed," Boreas says over our squadlink.
We expected as much. We sneak along the cavern wall. Shadow to shadow. Stop, pause, listen, look. Go. Stop. Repeat. Any mistake now will get us rebooted. We pass wide oblongs laid out in rows. Zant factories. Nightmare machines born at the intersection of engineering and corrupted biology. Infinitely adaptable, creative, dangerous. Just like the Genocide Seed that made them. Materials go in, zants come out. The materials could be anything. In this case I'm guessing it's metal and organic waste from the sewers. Disgusting. The number of factories is more disturbing than their raw material. There are too many for this to be a simple raid.
"This thing was meant to have fled here recently," Phobos mutters.
That's what we were told. It can't be true. The Genocide Seed has been here a long time.
‑ Guide, how many zants can these factories make?
‑ Analysis: Enough to conquer this city within thirty hours.
‑ What if the regiment helps the Xasen‑Kora?
‑ Information: The regiment is included in the estimate.
‑ Then this won't end well.
‑ Analysis: Correct.
We slink behind a pile of metal sheets near a zant factory. The factory opens. A new zant exits, headless. A long tentacle protrudes from the factory and attaches a head containing a sensor pod. The Genocide Seed must suspect it's not alone. Perhaps its scouts have found the spike I set off.
I grip my pistol as the zant leaves the factory and begins to patrol. We get lucky. It moves away from us.
"I miss my hyper‑rifle," Deimos says.
"And our missile launchers," Phobos adds.
Those are our usual tools of trade. Our scalpels. The Genocide Seed is a cancer. We need to cut it out of this alien world. Two missile launchers would be enough. The zants would become mindless, undirected. Easy to kill. Removing our enemy in this way would be neat, surgery with a scalpel. It is beyond us, but Boreas has already called in more squads of Pointers to do the task. As a backup, we will need to get close enough to send up coordinates for an orbital strike. That's surgery with an axe. It'll kill the Genocide Seed, but us, too. Command would consider this to be a good trade off.
Nobody would disagree.
"Any orbital will have to go through the upper city. It'd kill a lot of Xasen‑Kora," I say, thinking aloud again. Sometimes my own stupidity astounds me.
‑ Analysis: Correct.
"The Marchers will evacuate the city," Boreas says. "Keep your focus here."
"You think too much, rookie," Deimos says.
"And about weird stuff, too. No wonder you keep screwing up," Phobos adds.
‑ Analysis: Specialist Phobos is correct.
‑ Shut up, Guide.
"We need to set up the strike," Boreas says. "We'll do our job, let everyone else do theirs."
‑ Analysis: Fewer Xasen‑Kora will die in an orbital strike than if the Genocide Seed attacks.
I believe it. I've seen what a Genocide Seed is capable of. Alone, they're easy enough to kill. But they're never alone.
"Contact, Genocide Seed," Phobos says.
I've heard those words a thousand times in training. Never for real. Phobos points across the cavern. A wide shape floats in the dark. I can't see any details yet. Each Genocide Seed is different. Large or small, tentacles or legs, skin or armor. They're the ultimate parasites, adapting their shapes to their needs and environment. Their only common characteristic is a hatred for all other life.
We need to get close enough to tag it for extermination. Phobos and Deimos lead the way. Go. Stop. Hide. Pause. Pray. Relief. Repeat. Just like in training. We tread carefully among the lines of zant factories, freezing as newly created zants march past us within arm's reach without noticing us. Most have heads like tiny gun turrets. Some have mouths full of missiles. Others are adapted for close‑up fighting, the nightmare offspring of ants and razor wire.
We move past them carefully, never rushing. One false step and we're dead. The Genocide Seed makes our job easier by floating toward us. We watch as it pulls a zant factory from its belly and lays it gently on the ground. A dozen zants run over with mouthfuls of material to feed to the factory's maw. Within seconds the factory is at work.
"The beast proliferates, readying its foul offspring to carry forth plague," Erratos says. "We have arrived at the birth of demons; here, now we face the first stage of Armageddon, this insidious death, this—"
"We know," Phobos says. "It's bad."
The Genocide Seed moves toward us again. It's hundreds of times larger than the zants, or us. Larger than we were told to expect. Too large. Its very size silences us.
"Holy shit," Phobos says at last. "That thing is enormous."
"I get told that a lot," Deimos jokes.
Even Phobos ignores him this time. I stare at the Genocide Seed at it becomes clearer. It's shaped like a snake with two heads. If I had a heart it would burst. Any human would know that shape. It haunts our communal nightmares. This is the reason I joined the infantry.
The Ouranos itself. The most hated Genocide Seed. Here. Near us. I can't believe it.
"Call it in," Phobos whispers. "Do it!"
"Command, we have eyes on the Ouranos," Boreas says. "Repeat, eyes on—"
I imagine the orbital artillery pieces swinging toward us. There will be no time to evacuate the city. We won't escape, either. The Avari are about to blast the whole sewer to powder. It's a time for violence. Death. They need to do it now, quickly, before it gets away. Get it. Kill it. Kill it!
The Ouranos.
The murderer.