The ravine walls stretched high around them, jagged and uneven, casting long shadows over the gathered deserters. It was the kind of place that made a clone feel small, even if that clone was a gene-forged killer bred for efficiency.

  Nestled within the rocky crevice, they had the perfect vantage point to observe the bizarre logistics operation below. Aerial BCUs—grotesque things of flesh and chitin descended on four legs, their movements unnervingly smooth as they offloaded supplies and equipment.

  They operated with an efficiency that was, frankly, unsettling. Not a single misplaced step, not a single wasted motion it looked too mechanical to be biological.

  On the ground, a few of the clones sat atop three connected mine hauliers, their rifles resting nearby but untouched. There was no need to aim at anything. Not yet.

  CT-6691 adjusted his optics, exhaling through his teeth.

  “If you’d told me cycles ago that we’d be sitting here watching BCUs do logistics for us, I’d have shot you myself.”

  CT-9904 didn’t look up from where he was lounging against a rock, his arms folded behind his head. “If you’d told me we’d be alive after deserting, I’d have shot myself.”

  “No one’s stopping you,” CT-5572 chimed in.

  A few dry chuckles rippled through the group masking the unease they felt about all of this.

  Below, the four-armed, six-eyed humanoid BCUs moved alongside clones providing overwatch for the operation. Their exoskeletons pulsed in shifting shades, blending into the terrain with an almost casual disregard for the laws of perception. It was impossible to tell if they thought about it, or if it just happened.

  CT-4827, ever the observant one, sat cross-legged, his rifle resting across his lap as he watched them work.

  “You ever wonder how they think?” he asked.

  CT-3328 gave him a look. “The BCUs?”

  “No, the mining hauliers.” CT-4827 rolled his eyes. “Yes, the BCUs.”

  “What about them?”

  “They don’t talk, not like we do. But they coordinate too perfectly. Like a machine, but… there organic. Do they have ranks? Do they have names? Or are they just… things?”

  “You’re thinking too hard,” CT-6691 dismissed.

  “Maybe,” CT-4827 admitted. But he kept watching.

  And then, as if on cue, one of the BCU sentries below turned its head—directly toward their position.

  CT-4827 locked eyes with it.

  It just… watched.

  Longer than it needed to.

  Longer than was comfortable.

  And then, just as suddenly, it went back to scanning the area. As if nothing had happened.

  CT-5572 muttered, “They know we’re watching them.”

  “Of course they do,” CT-3328 added. “They’re watching us too.”

  The group lapsed into silence. A silence that stretched just a bit too long, right until CT-9904 exhaled loudly and muttered, “Bored clones do the stupidest things.”

  CT-6691 smirked. “Like what?”

  “Like the idiots who decided to try BCU rations.”

  That got their attention. CT-6691 let out a sharp laugh. “Wait, that actually happened?”

  “Yeah.” CT-9904 nodded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “One of them figured, ‘If we’re allies now, why not try the food?’ Took a bite, made a noise I ain’t ever heard a clone make, and now he’s in medical. He’s not dead, but he sure isn’t happy.”

  CT-3328 grunted. “Serves him right.”

  CT-6691 shook his head, still amused. “Probably clogging the toilet. I pity the clone with that job when shift changes.”

  “Not as bad as the group that asked if the BCUs could make alcohol.”

  CT-9904 sat up. “Wait, what?”

  CT-5572 nodded. “Yeah. I overheard a few asking if their organic processing systems could ferment something drinkable. One even suggested trading clone rations for ‘whatever they got.’”

  CT-9904 groaned, rubbing his helmet “We’ve been on this rock too long.”

  “At least it’s better than what those other defectors in the North tried.”

  CT-4827 turned his head. “What did they do?”

  CT-5572 sighed. “Rumours say they tried to hijack a mining haulier and fly off this rock.”

  CT-3328 scoffed. “And?”

  “Command shot them down.”

  Silence.

  Then CT-6691 let out a slow, dry chuckle. “Idiots.”

  “At least they tried something,” CT-9904 muttered.

  No one argued.

  Below, the next BCU procession was coming in, the grotesque things marching in their unnatural rhythm, continuing their work as if the absurdity of the situation wasn’t worth acknowledging.

  CT-3328 sighed. “I still don’t trust this peace.”

  “None of us do,” CT-4827 agreed. “But right now, we don’t have a better option.”

  They settled back into watchful silence, waiting for whatever came next.

  CT-6691 sat back against the rock, arms folded, watching another group of BCUs move with that unsettling, alien efficiency. His eyes flicked to a nearby supply crate, and his mood soured instantly when he saw the contents.

  “Alright,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Serious question, boys—should we actually ask the BCUs if they can make rations?”

  CT-5572 groaned. “Oh, here we go.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Look, I know it sounds stupid,” CT-6691 continued, “but consider this we have an absurd amount of Rigellian Nutrient Cakes.”

  A collective shudder went through the group.

  CT-9904 made a disgusted face. “Don’t say it like that. Sounds like you're trying to make it sound edible.”

  CT-4827 sighed and shook his head. “They’re not cakes. They’re bricks of regret.”

  “Bricks of something,” CT-3328 muttered. “I saw someone break a combat knife trying to cut one.”

  “Not surprised,” CT-5572 grumbled. “These things could be used for armour plating.”

  CT-6691 kicked the crate with the offending rations. It barely moved.

  “I swear, we have more of this garbage than actual ammunition,” he said.

  CT-9904 crossed his arms. “Probably because no one wants it. Every patrol and convoy we've ambushed has them it must be some sort of psychological warfare.”

  “Look, we’ve all had to eat it at some point,” CT-4827 said. “We can survive on it. Doesn’t mean we should.”

  CT-6691 looked around. “Okay, serious question—if it was a choice between eating this garbage for a month straight or stepping into a vacuum with no helmet, what do you pick?”

  CT-5572 didn’t even hesitate. “Vacuum. Quick and clean.”

  CT-3328 snorted. “Coward. I’d hold out for two days then take vacuum.”

  “Assuming your digestive system doesn’t give out first,” CT-9904 muttered. “You eat enough of that stuff, and your intestines start reinforcing themselves out of spite.”

  CT-4827 sighed. “We could probably use it to build a shelter at this point. I don’t know if it moulds, rots, or if it just… exists forever.”

  CT-6691 rubbed his chin in mock thought. “Maybe the BCUs could process it into something edible.”

  “Or a weapon,” CT-9904 offered.

  CT-3328 huffed. “Imagine getting killed by a compressed Rigellian Nutrient Brick.”

  “They’d call it war crimes.”

  “They’d call it a mercy.”

  The group laughed, the kind of dry, humour-starved laughter that came from clones who had spent far too much time together with way too little variety in their diet.

  CT-5572, shaking his head, finally sighed. “You know what? Screw it. I’ll ask Seer. If the BCUs can turn this war crime in a box into something that doesn’t taste like recycled boots, then maybe this whole ‘defecting’ thing wasn’t a complete mistake.”

  CT-6691 grinned. “Now that’s a noble cause.”

  CT-4827 just shook his head, still watching the BCUs move with inhuman grace.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “If we’re really stuck here, we might as well see what they can do.”

  CT-5572 sighed and switched on his comms. “Alright, let’s see if Seer’s in a listening mood.” He tapped into the secure channel.

  “Seer, you there?”

  A moment later, a smooth, even voice crackled through. “I’m here. If this is about rations, I swear on whatever dark pit birthed me—”

  “Good news, then,” CT-5572 cut in. “We’re not complaining about rations. We’re fixing them.”

  A pause. “… Go on.”

  “We were wondering if the BCUs could, I don’t know, process some of the garbage we’ve been given. Specifically, the Rigellian Nutrient Cakes.”

  The silence on the line stretched just a little too long.

  “You mean the bricks?” Seer finally said.

  “The very same.”

  “The things that taste like overcooked despair and somehow have the texture of dried engine lubricant?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And you want me to ask the BCUs if they can make it worse?”

  “Better, Seer. We’re trying to improve morale here.”

  “So is jumping off a cliff, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Another voice cut in over the comms. “Wait, are we talking about getting actual food? Count me in.”

  “CT-2273?” CT-5572 asked.

  “Yeah. And while we’re at it, why stop at rations? What about real food? I heard the BCUs have nutrient processors. Maybe they can make us something decent.”

  Another voice joined in. “What about alcohol? Can they ferment anything?”

  CT-6691 grinned. “Now we’re talking.”

  CT-3328 added, “What if they can make Erithian Blood Fruit Brew? I had some once—burns like fuel, but it’s worth it.”

  “That’s nothing,” another clone broke in. “Ever heard of Velloran Cosmic shot? Stuff’s so strong it’s classified as a controlled substance on half the core worlds. One sip, and you won’t feel your own war crimes.”

  CT-9904 chuckled. “Or your legs.”

  “I just want something that isn’t Rigellian Nutrient Cakes,” another clone muttered.

  Seer exhaled over the comms, clearly weighing whether or not to humour the request. “You’re all aware that if we get found out, the official report will say we were discovered because of a menu request, right?”

  CT-5572 shrugged. “I can live with that.”

  “Well, I can’t. Cutting comms before this turns into a full-on catering service.”

  And with that, Seer killed the channel.

  CT-6691 leaned back against the rock, smirking. “Think he’ll ask?”

  CT-5572 sighed. “If he doesn’t, I’m gonna start throwing these damn cakes at him until he does.”

  CT-9904 nodded solemnly. “Truly, the most tactical use for them.”