Druhalith (The Season of Resilience)

  Day 275

  1 A.E.

  455 days since my arrival

  My rebirth had given me a unique perspective, and an awareness beyond human limitations. With multiple bodies, countless senses, and a mind capable of observing from different vantage points, I could perceive the world in ways I once never imagined.

  Yet, despite all this knowledge, I found myself curious about something as mundane as the taste and texture of rations.

  The war still raged on the moon, the battlefield shifting and reforming under constant bombardment. But in the midst of it all, I diverted a single case of nutrient cakes for study.

  The logistics of feeding an army, even an army of clones, were just as important as the weapons they wielded.

  When the package arrived, I opened one ration, finding its deep blue colour speckled with decorative sprinkles an attempt, perhaps, to make it more palatable. I took a bite. It was as bland as I had expected, almost rock-like in consistency.

  The packaging recommended consuming it in a secure environment, away from the vacuum of space, and always with a beverage. I tested various flavours, but none resembled anything I had tasted on Earth.

  It was barely edible but functional, a universal meal designed for any species that could digest the blue brick. Further testing confirmed an alternative use it was dense enough to serve as an emergency projectile if paired with a sling.

  The clones, being omnivorous, required a balanced diet to maintain peak efficiency. Creating a nutrient paste or even an alcoholic substitute would be simple enough perhaps even preferable to these so-called “cakes.” Yet, as I analysed the data, a thought settled in the back of my mind.

  Was this truly what my second existence had come to?

  My earlier life had been marked by fear of imminent death. Now, I was contemplating food logistics, security protocols, and how best to deal with this diplomatic event.

  Life was unpredictable, chaotic even. Was I adapting to it, or was I simply preparing for an interaction with the clones? Perhaps this was the first step in testing diplomatic strategies.

  I combed through my network, searching for possible prisoners of war to test my modified nutrient paste. Over several hundred candidates met my criteria, but the list shrank as I filtered through factors, distance, resistance level, last stand tendencies. In the end, I sent my drones to the best candidates.

  While that process unfolded, I turned my attention to the Seer. I sent an infiltrator drone to track his movements and moved deeper into the outpost.

  The clones had reinforced the area with layered foam, setting plates atop it for stability. Their defensive corridors were a maze of twisting paths designed to create natural choke points.

  I passed several clones. Their reactions varied to fear, anger, curiosity and mostly hatred. Some might become problems. I had already marked a few for surveillance and integration into my infected clone network. One could never be too careful with radicals.

  Deeper within the outpost, I reached a cavern still partially covered in lunar rock. My burrowers were at work, expanding it. There, among his people, stood Seer. He noticed my drone immediately and stepped forward.

  “Trumek.”

  “Seer.”

  “It seems your creations never tire.”

  He didn’t look at me when he said it, he just kept his gaze fixed on the burrowers carving through the lunar surface. His expression was unreadable at first, then, a flicker of something. Not quite unease, but close.

  “You mean the burrowers?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” A slow blink, as if weighing his words. “They move more like machines than living things.” A pause. His jaw shifted slightly, a sign of lingering thought. “Some other clones believe they aren’t organic at all.”

  I said nothing and observed him closely, he was hesitant to speak about something.

  His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't argue. Instead, his eyes flicked away for a moment, like he was checking his surroundings. “More clones are going rogue,” he said.

  “I see… so it's true there is something wrong with all your chips.”

  “It’s true.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration barely masked. “Rumours are spreading. Reports say the control chips are failing.

  Their handlers can’t force them to march to their deaths like before.” His head tilted slightly, the tension in his shoulders just a little more pronounced.

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  I considered that. “A faulty design then, or worse, a cheap imitation.”

  His lips twitched, something between amusement and cynicism. “That’s my guess. A black-market model, maybe even an illegal copy. The Triumvirate’s quality control policies wouldn’t allow this kind of large-scale failure.”

  I watched him carefully. His tone was level, but his fingers tapped idly against his arm. A small, unconscious motion.

  “Are you going to lead all of them when I take full control of the moon?” I asked. “What will your people do?” I let the question linger.

  His jaw tightened at that. A small reaction, but there. “The truth?” A slow breath in, out. His shoulders eased, but his eyes darkened. “Most don’t know. I have my priorities, but the others…” His fingers twitched again. “It’s mixed. We were built for war. Now we’re seeing what’s left of us without it.”

  “Lost, then.”

  A humourless chuckle, barely audible. “Some are making plans looking for a way past the veil, trying to return to settled space. It’s impossible, but they'll try anyway.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Others bury themselves in copies of the Valurian literature you provided, reading and searching for meaning.”

  “And the rest?”

  A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “They drink. They argue. They fight over food. A soldier without a war is a problem waiting to happen.”

  I tilted my head. “I could offer a solution. If they’re willing to be test subjects, they can help refine my food trials.”

  His eyes flicked to me, sharp but unreadable. Then, a smirk, small, but unmistakable. “I’ll send the dumb ones first. Consider it a sacrifice for the greater good.”

  “Dumb ones?” I echoed. “Aren’t you all the same?”

  His smirk widened, but only slightly. “Genetically, sure. Mentally? Not even close.” A slow shake of his head. “A bored clone is a dangerous clone. If it keeps them from self-destruction, I’ll take the trade.”

  “If they're that bored, there is a simple solution, I could always use living subjects when I am testing new weapons”

  That made him pause. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in something close to curiosity. “You’re making jokes now?” His voice held a trace of amusement, faint but real. “Didn’t think you were capable.”

  “I’ve absorbed the minds and bodies of too many of your brothers. Perhaps some of their thoughts remain.”

  His amusement faded. A flicker of something else crossed his expression—wariness, maybe. Not fear, but a careful recalculation. “If you don’t end up like the worst of them, I’ll call it a miracle.”

  “But let’s be serious. What do you plan for the rest of the system? The most habitable worlds are dead. We made sure of that.”

  “I’ll terraform them, slowly into something that will suit my needs,” I said. “Maybe expand to the neighbouring systems If I breach the veil.”

  A slow inhale. He looked away, gaze drifting, thoughts elsewhere. “By the time you figure that out, we’ll all be dead. We have a few years left before we return to nothingness.”

  “I could change that. The alteration would be… minimal.”

  His reaction was subtle. A slight shift in posture, a tightening of his hands. “You could, but it wouldn’t matter.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “We were conditioned from birth to accept the end—on or off the battlefield. We struggle, we fight, but our mission is all that remains.”

  “And yet, you rebelled. Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  His head tilted back slightly. A small laugh, low and dry. “What do you expect from cheap products?” His gaze locked onto mine again, something resigned in it. “I’ll let every clone decide for themselves how they wish to go. But I doubt many would let you probe their minds willingly.”

  “Fair enough. This war will end soon,” I said. “But this campaign for the moon? It’ll end even sooner.”

  His gaze sharpened, his body tensing—just a fraction, but noticeable. “Sooner than you think,” he muttered. “More encrypted networks are appearing between Grithan ship captains. Something’s happening.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said. “Small fleet skirmishes are increasing.”

  A slow nod. His lips pressed together, thoughtful. Then, a hint of something like grim amusement. “Aegirarch isn’t leading this campaign. That might work in your favour.”

  “Maybe.”