I was only a child when the Ouranos attacked Earth, but the memory of it is still vivid. Night banished. The sky on fire. Earth's own fleet of satellites and ships turned against us. Radiation spreading through the cities. My mother, crying. Dad silent, pulling me away from the live feed. Fifty‑seven million dead. The destruction. The fear. The panic.
The Ouranos.
Our squad stares up at it.
"We're going to be legends," Phobos whispers.
True. I've dreamed of killing the Ouranos since I was a child. My hatred of the Ouranos made me into the soldier I am today. Our regiment will sing our praises. Everyone will know our names. There will be medals. Promotions. Documentaries. We will be famous. We will be heroes.
If we can kill the Ouranos.
I wish we had our missile launchers. Members of the Genocide Seed are easy enough to kill. The problem has always been finding them, isolating them, killing them without killing everyone else. That's why they hide in cities.
"Focus," Boreas says. "We need to spread out around the cavern and the Ouranos. Command requires each of us to send them an active ping so they can bring down strikes between us. We need to be ready in three minutes. Understand?"
We do. It's a standard Marcher tactic, repurposed for our mutual destruction. An active ping will strip us of our stealth. Command will know exactly where we are. So will every zant within a hundred miles. Command is asking us to burn ourselves on the altar of the common good. To suffer. To die. Not permanently, of course. We'll be rebooted.
We'll be heroes. But we'll have no memory of our greatest hour.
Worth it.
Erratos is our anchor. We spread out around him.
I circle left, with the twins. They point where they want me to wait. I crouch. They'll be in position soon. Two minutes, and the strike will have zeroed in on us. All we have to do is remain unnoticed. We can do this. I can do this. I wait. Look around. See nothing of concern. A minute and forty-five seconds. My plasma pistol is ready. I won't need it. The rules of time are broken – moments passing slowly yet all at once. One minute.
A zant crawls toward me. This one is carried along on a a dozen sharp legs. Unpleasant. Worse, it's carrying a sensor pod. I freeze.
‑ Guide, initiate maximum stealth!
‑ Confirmed.
My power drains away, my sensors die. It's a desperate choice. I can't fight. I can't escape. The zant won't see me, it can't. I'm not a soldier, I'm a statue. A rock. No threat. The zant crawls closer, closer. Thirty seconds. That's all I need. The zant crawls closer still. It's almost on me.
It stops right by my face. It turns toward me, stares. It can't decide if I'm a threat, or a meal for its companions. Zants aren't particularly bright. This could take a while.
Ten seconds.
The zant walks away. I relax.
Nine.
I still don't move.
Eight.
‑ Alert: Proximity alert error. Maximum stealth deactivated.
‑ What? No!
The zant spins back toward me. It screams.
Seven.
The scream echoes across the cavern. More zants join in, an unholy chorus of metal voices. I bring my pistol upward.
Six.
My trigger finger jumps. The zant dies. Too late.
Five.
The Ouranos adds its own scream. Powerful. Deafening. I turn to see it fleeing across the cavern.
Four.
"Damnation, rookie!"
Three.
The Ouranos is fast. Far too fast for something of its size. It's going to escape.
Two.
The Ouranos reaches the end of the cavern. It enters a wide tunnel. A way out, perhaps. A pre‑planned exit. The Ouranos is nothing if not careful.
One.
The orbital strikes arrive. Fire burns through the roof of the cavern. The ground shakes. The air roars. The explosion throws me off my feet. I land on my head with a thud and roll over. The cavern is a furnace. Liquid metal drips onto my skin. Chunks of pipe fall all around me, crashing into the zant factories. Zants are everywhere, running from the cavern. They pass me by. A second explosion tears my legs away. My pistol flies away. I bounce like a plastic toy thrown down a stairwell. A pipe lands on my chest, crushing me.
The explosions stop. The world stops spinning.
To my great surprise, I'm not dead.
"Is anyone active?" I ask over the squadlink.
No one answers. The orbital strikes continue. The cavern collapses around me. Too late for the Ouranos. At least the zant factories wouldn't have survived.
I need to escape.
‑ Status update, guide.
‑ Information: The Genocide Seed has fled. Primary mission failed. Secondary mission—
‑ I meant my status!
‑ Analysis: Status is inactive. Both legs lost, left arm lost, right arm half‑strength. Power source damaged, sensors compromised.
‑ Damn. And the squad?
‑ Information: Squad status unknown.
More orbital strikes shake the ground. They rip open the cavern. Is that daylight above me? Is it a warhead exploding? It might no longer matter. A downpour of metal and stone bury me.
‑ So I can't move?
‑ Analysis: Correct.
There's no way out. We've failed. The Ouranos escaped. I'm going to be rebooted.
I'll wake up back at Forward Base Seven with no memory of this mission. A version of me will, anyway. One with no memory of the tunnels, of the courage I found to keep crawling. No memory of seeing the Ouranos. Of the rage I felt. It will all have been for nothing. No. The Troy who wakes up won't be me. Not really. She'll be a lesser me.
Suddenly being rebooted feels a lot like dying. I don't want it.
‑ Am I going to die?
My guide beeps politely.
‑ Information: There are no certainties in predicting the future, only statistical probabilities.
A final explosion. The metal sewers wrap themselves around me, crushing my bones. I scream. The pain transitions to numbness. A bad sign.
My guide beeps again.
‑ And? I ask, scared and impatient.
‑ Analysis: More orbital strikes are incoming. Your survival is statistically impossible. The words are delivered with electronic calm. Alert: This unit's emergency shutdown procedures have begun.
‑ No, wait, I don't want to—
Everything goes white.