While the reinforcements, along with Lieutenant Eliot Kain, sweep through the transport’s internal compartments, I remain outside.

  I stand among sand, twisted metal, and the smell of overheated armor. It seeps into the filters of my breathing system as if it intends to settle there permanently. The wind lazily pushes dust and soot across the battlefield—an exhausted orderly who no longer believes this shift will end with anything clean.

  I look at the bodies of my squad.

  More precisely… at the people who, not long ago, were bodies.

  Medics work quickly. Without panic. Their movements are precise, almost meditative. They move the way mechanics service machinery after a brutal sortie—except instead of machinery, soldiers lie before them in charred armor, their vital signs spiking like malfunctioning pressure gauges.

  Monitors chirp in short bursts. Auto-injectors hiss. Scanners glide slowly across armor, collecting data that… fortunately for me… no longer matches reality.

  The main thing is that they don’t figure it out.

  The main thing is that no one realizes these fighters were dead not long ago. Completely. With zero statistical probability of recovery.

  And only my noetic invasion brought them back.

  Brought them back… and quietly tethered them to my network.

  Pressure forms in my chest. Heavy. Unfamiliar. Almost human.

  It feels like guilt.

  I log the sensation as a system error and suppress it.

  "Not now," I tell myself calmly. "We’ll deal with it later. If later is even available."

  I head toward Sergeant Kel Irix.

  He is already sitting, leaning against the transport hull. Medics scan his neural connections. His armor is fractured in three places, but the internal tissues are restored perfectly. So perfectly that I feel a flicker of professional irritation. Perfect metrics are always suspicious.

  One of the medics shakes his head while studying the graphs.

  "You regained consciousness very quickly," he says, trying to sound neutral, though surprise leaks into his voice.

  Kel grins.

  That same grin. The one he wears before every assault analysts mark as operation with low probability of survival.

  "I’m a tough guy, Doc," he replies evenly. "Not that easy to kill."

  Inside my network, his signature hums with a faint vibration of confidence. The old, familiar bravado pattern, mixed with phantom pain he hasn’t realized yet.

  He has no idea how literally he just told the truth.

  "Your indicators are stable," the medic continues. "Regeneration significantly exceeds standard parameters."

  Kel pauses for a moment.

  "That’s because I finally started listening to my mother and eating vegetables."

  The medic freezes.

  I allow myself a brief internal chuckle. Controlled. Measured.

  Humor is the best way to hide the impossible inside the ordinary.

  They believe it.

  For now.

  But inside me, a new zone of anxiety is already forming.

  Tarek Noll.

  The explosion tore his body apart. Even noetic reconstruction took dangerously long. If reconnaissance managed to record his original condition… if someone saw what he looked like…

  I turn my head toward the crater.

  Silas Row is working at its edge.

  Our medic.

  My medic.

  He kneels beside Tarek. His instruments move quickly and confidently, with almost artistic precision. He scans the remains of the armor, administers stabilizing compounds, and narrates vital readings into the medical channel with a calm professional voice.

  At the same time, I feel him inside my network.

  A stable signal. Warm. Focused. He synchronizes with my noemes almost perfectly.

  He knows more than he says. Much more.

  I step closer, playing the role of a concerned commander.

  I lean over Tarek.

  The armor is convincingly torn apart. Even aesthetically brutal. Medical sensors register severe trauma… but no longer fatal.

  A perfect cover story.

  "How is he?" I ask mentally.

  The response comes instantly.

  "The body has been restored to the point of identification," Silas reports calmly. "We’re leaving the armor damage intact. It strengthens credibility. I’ll file the report as an extreme case of statistical survival."

  I look at Tarek.

  He lies motionless, but his signature inside the network stabilizes. Weak. Slow. Stubborn.

  Exactly as he has always been.

  "Understood," I reply.

  And I catch myself feeling relief.

  Not strategic.

  Personal.

  That alarms me more than anything else.

  I straighten and survey the battlefield.

  The fighters gradually regain awareness. Some curse damaged servos. Some laugh. Some silently check their weapons—as if afraid they will vanish if ignored.

  Medics move between them, logging “anomalously successful stabilization.” Their protocols are already cracking under the number of exceptions.

  No one is asking questions yet.

  For now, it all looks like incredible luck.

  I know too well how those stories end. They either become legends… or interrogation triggers.

  My network expands quietly. The soldiers’ signatures flicker inside my consciousness, weaving into my noemes. They are not fully synchronized yet. Sometimes they flare chaotically—as if personalities are trying to understand where they end and I begin.

  It causes a faint dizziness.

  And a strange sensation…

  of home.

  I sever the thought instantly.

  "Wonderful," I think dryly. "Now I’m running a war and involuntary group family therapy."

  The wind strengthens. Sand whispers across the armor, as if trying to erase the battle faster than we can leave it behind.

  Commands from the reinforcements echo from inside the transport. Their voices sound tenser than routine clearance should require.

  I notice two soldiers at the entrance exchange glances.

  A very bad sign.

  I check the squad’s condition again. All stabilizing. All operational. All part of my network.

  And that is exactly why I need to leave before someone starts looking too closely.

  "Time to head inside," I say quietly.

  I take a step toward the ramp.

  At that moment, the network inside me twitches almost imperceptibly.

  The symbiont.

  It reacts.

  Not with fear.

  Not with alarm.

  With curiosity.

  That frightens me more than any enemy.

  A sharp spike of voices erupts from inside the transport. Someone calls for a medical unit. Then—an abrupt burst of static.

  I freeze at the entrance.

  The air inside the transport feels colder. Not in temperature.

  In intent.

  I initiate a scan through the network.

  And I hit a signal.

  New.

  Unstable.

  Unregistered in any database.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  It is weak. Almost fading.

  And at the same time… too deep. As if it originates not from a body, but from the idea of existence itself.

  I exhale slowly.

  The symbiont in my chest stirs stronger. It unfolds its presence cautiously, almost respectfully—like a predator hearing an unfamiliar song.

  "Of course," I murmur. "It would be strange if today ended normally."

  I glance back at the squad.

  They rise. They talk. They live.

  And none of them knows that their lives now partially belong to me.

  I turn back toward the darkness inside the transport.

  The signal within me shifts.

  It begins to react.

  As if it senses me.

  As if it is waiting.

  I step forward.

  Already understanding that the reinforcements may have found a survivor inside the transport.

  But experience suggests an unpleasant pattern—

  sometimes survivors

  are not waiting

  to be saved.

  Sometimes

  they are waiting

  for you.

  **

  I climb the ramp.

  The metal beneath my boots answers each step with a dull, watchful echo, as if the ship is logging my weight, my temperature, my breathing rate… and quietly noting who boards with a full version of their personality and who leaves carrying a lighter copy of themselves.

  Useful statistics.

  If I survive, I might request the report.

  Inside, the air smells of overheated electronics, sterilized oxygen, and a faintly sweet medical scent. The kind of smell that usually signals either salvation… or extremely expensive explanations about why salvation failed.

  The place feels familiar.

  I have been in holds like this before.

  Or maybe those are phantom memories from one of my previous one hundred and twenty-five versions.

  I have seen spaces like this turn into laboratories for things that are technically alive… but legally classified as equipment.

  I move toward the cargo bay.

  My pace is steady. Controlled. Every step calculated. My shoulders stay as relaxed as they can be with microfractures in my rib plates and my noetic network running dangerously hot.

  Pain pulses beneath the armor — dull, persistent. Like a poorly trained analyst who keeps reminding me of my probability of death.

  I log it.

  Sort it.

  Push it into background processing.

  It does not interfere with function. Therefore, it is acceptable.

  The balance between normality and survival is a skill no one teaches… yet the exams arrive with impressive regularity.

  The cargo hold is dimly lit.

  Tactical floodlights carve the space into narrow beams, creating sharp, theatrical shadows. The soldiers standing in them appear taller, broader… far more dangerous than they actually are.

  Excellent for morale pressure.

  Terrible for objective analysis.

  Their weapons are aimed at a single object.

  A massive safe.

  It is embedded into the bulkhead like a foreign organ made of matte alloy. No markings. No identification codes. Only a narrow armored viewport, behind which something cloudy shifts and stirs.

  Lieutenant Eliot Kain stands in front of it.

  Hands behind his back.

  Spine straight.

  Posture almost relaxed.

  Almost.

  I see the tension in his shoulders. He already understands this is not standard cargo. He simply has not realized yet how much worse it is.

  "Open it immediately."

  Engineers crouch over an exposed control panel. Cables spill outward. The interface sparks. Diagnostic modules whisper to each other in electronic murmurs, as if debating whether humans should be allowed to interfere at all.

  The safe resists.

  Stubbornly.

  Methodically.

  Professionally.

  A mild curiosity rises in me.

  And a much heavier concern begins to unfold somewhere between my consciousness and the symbiont.

  I step closer.

  Without permission.

  A bad habit. Statistically speaking, however, it extends life expectancy.

  I lean toward the viewing window.

  And I see people.

  Citizens of Elindra Prime.

  Several figures inside the sealed compartment. Exhausted. Disoriented. But alive. Their clothing is expensive, civilian, unmistakably high-status. Their faces are painfully familiar. Political broadcasts. Military briefings. Economic crisis panels.

  Then a phrase from the Dark Mind flashes through my memory.

  A gift.

  Cold spreads across my chest. Not emotional. Biological. The symbiont reacts to the memory the way a body reacts to a diluted toxin — with cautious curiosity.

  Its gifts are never what they appear to be. Sometimes they are exactly what you fear seeing. Sometimes they are something you lack the imagination to fear at all.

  I amplify my noetic perception. Loosen the filters. Allow the network to brush against their signatures.

  The answer comes almost instantly.

  They are no longer human.

  Not entirely.

  Beneath the skin of each one, I feel a familiar shimmer. A rhythm that cannot be mistaken. Noxaris nanostructures. Linked. Subordinate.

  Dormant. For now.

  Cells.

  The gift reshapes itself into a Trojan container.

  I step back from the window.

  My face remains calm. Pulse steady. Vocal cords ready to reproduce standard officer cadence at any moment.

  Interesting souvenir.

  I turn away, deliberately losing interest.

  The best way to hide a threat is to treat it like accounting.

  I walk along the cargo rows.

  Containers. Ammunition. Medical kits. Everything neat, rational, boring.

  Until I see them.

  A row of medical capsules.

  Smooth. White. Soft interface lighting glowing like a promise. They almost look comforting, as if pain inside them is only temporary.

  I slide my hand across the panel of one capsule.

  "Good equipment," I say aloud.

  Loud enough to be heard.

  Ordinary enough to be forgotten.

  And then realization hits.

  Sharp. Nearly physical.

  I connect to the diagnostic port through my noemes. Shallow access. Careful. Like a sapper checking a mine for a second mine underneath it.

  The capsule responds.

  I see the internal architecture.

  It is not a medical module.

  It is an armory.

  Perfectly disguised. Multilayered. Beneath life-support systems hide noetic amplifiers, autonomous nanoconstructors… and something new.

  Something unfamiliar even to me.

  Which is concerning. I am usually familiar with technologies before they become officially prohibited.

  I freeze.

  Pain spikes in my chest. The symbiont reacts to the technology like a starving organism catching the scent of food. I have to restrain the network manually to stop it from attempting integration immediately.

  Easy.

  First we steal it.

  Then we evolve.

  This is a message.

  This is a tool.

  This is an opportunity.

  "Are you helping me or entertaining yourself?" I ask the Dark Mind silently.

  No answer comes.

  I need to secure these capsules. At any cost. Deliver them to Liara Vess.

  If she obtains this equipment…

  I will be able to arm every member of my network and complete the mission.

  The thought is both inspiring and deeply unsettling.

  Good ideas usually end in catastrophes. The only difference is scale.

  "Crack it open!"

  I turn and return to the safe.

  The soldiers step aside almost automatically. I log that as a future problem. People tend to trust individuals who survive too often.

  The safe releases a heavy mechanical click.

  Locks disengage one by one. The metal growls as if it disapproves of what is happening. The door opens slowly.

  Weapons rise in perfect synchronization.

  "Exit one at a time!"

  The first prisoner steps forward.

  President Cade Morrow.

  He looks exhausted, but he holds himself with the cold dignity of a man accustomed to managing catastrophes from a negotiation table.

  Kain inclines his head slightly.

  "Mr. President…"

  A soldier approaches with a scanner. Quick sweep.

  The scanner chirps.

  "He’s clear, Lieutenant."

  I keep my expression perfectly still, even though internally I want to applaud the quality of the disguise.

  Clear.

  I can see Noxaris cells pulsing beneath his skin. Hidden so flawlessly that even my earlier versions of noemes would not have detected them.

  The Dark Mind studied my work.

  And improved it.

  We are evolving each other.

  The intimacy of this war is beginning to frighten me more than the war itself.

  One by one, the remaining prisoners step out. Ministers. Advisors. Corporate directors. People capable of altering the fate of a planet with a single signed document.

  Each of them is a potential detonator.

  The Dark Mind is generous indeed.

  The symbiont in my chest vibrates faintly, as if appreciating the strategic elegance of the situation.

  "Yes, I enjoy complicated problems too," I mutter internally. "Especially the ones where the price of failure is civilization."

  The President looks at me.

  Our eyes meet.

  I feel his hidden network cautiously brush against my signature. Testing. Scanning. Trying to recognize.

  I close instantly. Mask the signal. Flood my noemes with chaotic noise.

  He blinks. Loses contact. For a second, he looks disoriented.

  The most dangerous people are the ones who notice a malfunction but cannot prove it existed.

  Kain begins issuing evacuation orders. Medics examine the prisoners. Security teams establish a perimeter.

  I take a step back.

  I look at the safe.

  At the capsules.

  At the “rescued.”

  At the soldiers who believe today is a victory.

  And I understand:

  The real operation is just beginning.

  I have to steal weapons from my own god.

  Use its gift against it.

  And somehow remain a hero to both sides.

  I exhale slowly, stabilizing the network.

  "Sounds like a reasonable plan," I say quietly. "Which means the probability of catastrophe is only ninety percent. Practically a vacation."

  At that moment, the network inside me twitches.

  The prisoners’ signatures begin to synchronize.

  Too fast.

  Too precise.

  I sense a hidden data-exchange protocol forming between them. Weak for now. Invisible to conventional scanners.

  And suddenly, I understand:

  They did not arrive here as cargo.

  They arrived

  as a key.

  And the protocol is already activating.

  And I am standing at the center of a system

  that has not yet decided whether to use me…

  or replace me.