The battle was over. I was depleted.

  My star lance reserves were empty. My fleet was reduced to nothing. Until I could grow the next batch and modify my forces, I was vulnerable.

  But victory had been secured—at least in part. Isolated pockets of resistance remained. The clones still bound by their control chips fought to the bitter end, while others, freed from their programming, battled against and with them in desperate skirmishes.

  Surrender was rare, but exhaustion and despair eventually broke some of them. The Southern Hemisphere was mine. Rogue clone elements still held ground in the north, west and east, but without centralized leadership, they were little more than scattered enclaves.

  Encirclement was the inevitable outcome. The stubborn ones fought to the last, their kind fading into extinction—obsolete soldiers clinging to a war already lost.

  Those who did surrender were stripped of their weapons and given just enough rations to survive before being transported to Seer and his facilities. Their fate was no longer my concern.

  I moved through the ruins, gathering intelligence, and salvaging what could be repurposed. My first attempt at shipbuilding had been a success, but the Zhyrraak design was in desperate need of refinement.

  The battle had proven its strengths—robust and deadly in close-quarters engagements—but it lacked armour, long-range capabilities, and sufficient defences.

  I required something more versatile.

  A redesign was inevitable. Thicker armour. Superior ranged weapons. Enhanced defensive measures. If I could minimize biomass costs while integrating these improvements, the long-term benefits would be substantial.

  For now, my strategy shifted. Defence would be my priority. Enemy technology, along with what I had learned from the Valurians, would patch the vulnerabilities in my forces.

  The moon itself was being transformed—tunnels expanding into industrial complexes, factories emerging from the hollowed depths, all geared toward wartime production.

  And beyond this moon, my next step was already in motion.

  In four days, my ships would reach their first planetary destination. If the landing succeeded, the following five would be redirected—either toward the Valurian home world or one of the twin asteroid belts: The Ebon Ring or The Shattered Veil.

  Both were desolate. With minimal enemy mining activity. Vast expanses of untouched rock. Perfect breeding grounds for my expansion.

  Given enough time—decades, perhaps centuries—I could infest them, converting every fragment of stone into a fortress, a factory, or a stronghold.

  For the first time, I had the luxury of patience.

  I turned my attention to a more experimental sustenance.

  The latest revision of my nutrient pods was… functional, if aesthetically unappealing to clones.

  A resin cocoon filled with thick, black sludge. Visually, it was an abomination in their eyes. Nutritionally, it was viable. The taste, however, still required refinement.

  I moved deeper into my tunnels, reaching a newly constructed prison wing housing clones, rows upon rows, restrained in pods. Their minds open to my influence and study.

  I focused on one.

  His consciousness drifted within a memory—he was on one of the core worlds, a training facility, enjoying a meal with the rest of his brothers.

  A moment of normalcy. I reached in, altering the recollection, replacing the meal with my newest formulation.

  His reaction was immediate. He tasted it. Found it sweet. Enjoyable, even. The side effects, however… unfortunate. A lingering gaseous reaction.

  A minor flaw. One that could be corrected with further refinement.

  The flavours needed further work. I had tried mimicking earth-based tastes—meat, poultry, fish. Perhaps my next attempt would experiment with a Grithan substitute.

  There was still so much work to be done.

  With my expanded mental capabilities, I had the luxury of time—time to experiment, refine, and perfect. Among my many projects, one had proven particularly elusive: coffee.

  Recreating the right balance, the perfect mixture had been a challenge. My latest attempt at synthesizing caffeine had failed, but the experiment was far from over. I would get it right.

  There were still other pressing concerns.

  When my ships finally made planet fall, they would be heading straight for the artificial seas and ocean. That meant a full redesign of all combat variants—adapting them to a post-apocalyptic world where mobility and versatility would be key.

  Most units would need wings for aerial adaptability, though the Heavy would likely remain grounded due to its immense weight. The Strider and Hexapod would still be focused on ground warfare, but all their combat variants would require weapon upgrades to match the coming campaigns.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  However, these changes could only begin after planet fall. The gravity conditions on this moon made it impossible to properly test these modifications beforehand.

  Still, once on the surface, my biomass production would accelerate—faster than ever, depending on the conditions I encountered.

  ———

  The corridor was packed. Clones pressed through the narrow space. The dim overhead lights flickered slightly, casting a sterile glow over the white and black plating of their suits.

  Amidst them, a few BCUs moved silently, their four arms tucked close to their bodies, their six eyes surveying the crowd without expression. The clones eyed them but said nothing.

  CT-5572 exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Feels like we’re cramming more bodies into less space every cycle.”

  CT-3328 let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, because we are. We’re running out of space, rations, and time.”

  CT-4827 shook his head. “Even those cakes are almost gone. Never thought I'd miss those dry, flavourless bricks.”

  CT-6691 crossed his arms. “How do we even run out of cakes? The BCU don't eat them.”

  CT-3328 shrugged. “Maybe they started feeding 'em to the Grithan prisoners.”

  The line moved forward, and they approached the entrance to Seer's chamber. The waiting clones shifted slightly, some glancing at the closed door while others kept their eyes on the BCU standing still as statues nearby. No one spoke to them.

  “So, what do you think this mission is?” CT-5572 mused. “Maybe we’re getting new beds.”

  CT-3328 snorted. “That’d be a first.”

  “It's most likely a few salvage runs?” CT-6691 suggested.

  CT-9904 frowned. “Doubt it. We barely have hauliers left that can make the trip.”

  The door hissed open, revealing Seer standing beside a table. Next to him, two BCU figures flanked a translucent grey pod. Suspended inside the pod was a thick, black substance that swirled lazily, shifting as though alive.

  The clones hesitated, then all spoke at once.

  “What is that?”

  “Some kind of weapon?”

  “Why is it alive?”

  Seer raised a hand, silencing them. He then extended a finger, pointing directly at CT-6691. “You. Taste it.”

  CT-6691 recoiled. “Wait why me?”

  Seer smirked. “Because this was your idea.”

  “I didn’t propose this! I don’t even know what it is!” CT-6691 hesitated, looking at the pod as if it might reach out and grab him. “And if I refuse?”

  The Seer’s smirk widened. “Then you’ll be on latrine duty. For a year.”

  A collective groan rippled through the room, the clones looking at CT-6691 with a mix of sympathy and amusement. His shoulders sagged in defeat. “Fine.”

  Stepping forward, he took a small cup that Seer handed him. The black liquid was thick but moved easily as he tilted the cup in his hand. He grimaced and, after one last sigh, took a sip.

  Silence.

  CT-6691 blinked. “… It’s sweet.”

  The others watched as he took another sip, then nodded. “Actually… it’s good.”

  CT-5572 narrowed his eyes. “Good how?”

  “Like, sweet but not too much and smooth. Not gritty like the cakes.”

  CT-3328 reached for a cup. “If it doesn’t kill him in the next few minutes, I’ll try it.”

  One by one, more clones hesitantly stepped forward. Seer watched, amused, before finally speaking. “That’s your new ration.”

  CT-9904 crossed his arms. “What about alcohol options?”

  One of the BCUs responded in a neutral tone. “Drunk clones make bad decisions. But I will look into it.”

  CT-9904 scoffed. “So do sober ones.”

  The BCU continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “We will consider options for morale purposes.”

  CT-3328 crossed his arms. “Great. Food and Alcohol crisis solved. Now what about space? Air?”

  The Seer’s expression shifted, his usual amusement fading slightly. “A new command structure is being made. Each of you will be divided into groups to a location in the South to live in.”

  CT-5572 narrowed his eyes. “And then what?”

  The Seer shrugged. “That’s up to you. The BCUs might give you tasks now dismissed.”

  Once the clones had finally left, he turned to the BCU and sighed. “Well, that’s that. We’re overcrowded, running low on air—but at least we still have food and alcohol.”

  “There might be a solution,” the BCU stated.

  Seer leaned back in his chair, glancing up. “I'm listening.”

  “Have you considered building your own ships and leaving?”

  Seer chuckled. “Your sense of humour is improving. Look, we were made for one purpose—point us at the enemy, and we'll charge in, doing our best to kill it.”

  “Then you should start preparing for that purpose again. I believe your creators will be returning for you soon.”

  Seer's expression darkened. “I don’t doubt that.”