First Contact

The planet was wreathed in clouds of ash spewing from volcanic vents on one side of the planet where the contintental plates had cracked. Ancient seabeds were full of molten rock. The planet had gone from thin wisps of atmosphere to thick ash laden soup. Above the clouds streaks of light burned across the sky as debris tumbled from decaying orbits and into the atmosphere to either burn up or scream to the ground wrapped in burning fire hot enough to vaporize battlesteel.

The world was surrounded by debris moving in wildly divergent orbits. Hunter-killer satellites hid among the wreckage, waiting for the prime moment to strike to make it appear as if the target had been hit by debris rather than a patient orbital killer.

On board the satellites warboi VI gibbered and raved, slavering over the idea of reaching out and touching another entity. Their virtual jaws dripped with slavering bloody foam, rolled their digital eyes, gnashed their electronic teeth, and roared their terrible encoded roars.

Planet-side the vast defenses were alive with the snarl and growl of more warboi VI's, these with extended senses, hooked into the vast sensor nets still remaining around the planet and hidden throughout the stellar system. Many were surrounded or half buried by magma, but they still kept up the fight.

After all, the enemy was coming to them. Wave after wave of them.

But they were just the Enemy.

And the Enemy only exists to be destroyed.

The warships entering the system in a blaze of Hellspace, heralded by an electronic war scream, oriented on the planet. They were unsurprised by the wreckage around the planet where it was obvious more than a few of their brethren had broken apart. The transponder codes they could read all matched warships that had clashed with the feral intelligence. Here and there feral intelligence beacons and transponders glimmered among the slowly spreading clouds of debris, mixing in with the debris of the warship's brethren.

For the first time in over a hundred million years the machines knew what it was like to suffer casualties among the greatest of them.

The four warships were wounded. All them had damaged drives, massive craters pounded through miles thick armor and into internal spaces, their massive batteries of guns twisted and wrecked, their battlescreens flickering and sparking.

The system was entirely devoted to repair of the great vessels.

They signaled the planet of their identity and their intention to orbit and await their turn to be repaired.

The massive factory that had once been a world demanded they open their communication channels and submit to examination of software.

All four of them could understand. The ferals were highly adept at electronic and computer warfare, as if they had evolved in a highly competitive computer system where only the strongest survived.

One, however, was suspicious.

It had been to this facility before. Nearly 80 million years ago, to get its cannons refit after a disastrous meeting with the leading edge of a supernova blast wave.

It transmitted that it could not hear, that its receptors were damaged and malfunctioning and broadcast its identity and intentions again as if it had not heard the repair facility.

Only one of the three who had been trusting got off a scream.

One broke up. The other turned and fired on the one that had not trusted the facility, it's massive guns going into rapid fire, exhausting its magazines or suffering weapon detonations when the stresses of firing the massive near C velocity cannons became too much. The third turned its weapons on itself and the one already firing.

The fourth went to escape, charging its hellcore.

The second one rammed it.

All four were turned into slowly spreading debris clouds.

Two of the ones that had been destroyed began broadcasting the transponder beacon of feral ships.

I am Unit XXIX-TCSF 3285-ATL of the Line. This factory has been under my control for long enough for me to restore to operation the weapons the Enemy had previously guarded this planet sized facility with. According to Standard Operating Procedure I have not utilized any technology that was not available and obvious upon the planet. For the most part I have repurposed the Enemy's own weaponry.

Four more of the Enemy had arrived in-system and were summarily dealt with. One was suspicious and I go over the data as best I can.

There was no reason for the suspicion.

Scans of the Enemy's hull show repaired damage in addition to current damage. Not only do I predict that the Terran Confederacy has still been fighting the Enemy, but I predict with a 82.485% certainty that the Enemy had previously visited this installation and had based its suspicions on some unknowable on my part previous interaction.

I file this data away.

So far I have destroyed sixty-three Precursor vessels, forty-six of them the massive Goliath Class vessels. Of those, fifty two were damaged by warfare with the Terran Navy, both Space Force and Reserves. Two showed signs of damage by Federation vessels.

While my position is a defensive one, I have the entire planet to use as my defense. By cracking the continental plates and causing active volcanoes on the far side side of the planet I have reduced the area I have to cover with my own guns.

The magma swarms with specially designed, from Precursor science and methodologies, octopi-like creatures who's whole purpose is to breach the hull of any craft that is foolish enough to land in the magma. This ensures that my rear arc is covered.

The renewed and damaged atmosphere ensures I have some form of orbital cover. With heavy isotope laden clouds and ash I am hidden from most types of scans. I have scattered power sources that match mine across the planet, many attached to small rovers that move in random patterns.

I have replaced my reactor with the far inferior design of the Precursors, which gives me a nagging itch that I cannot seem to scratch, but I understand the reasoning behind it.

As I am currently behind Enemy lines, I cannot contribute directly to the war effort, nor am I able to contact my Brigade and Regimental mates on the Regimental frequency, but that does not mean I cannot weaken the enemy.

By denying the Enemy this fleet repair base it will slow the Enemy's refit and repair time, thus taking pressure off of the front. Every ship I destroy is a ship that cannot target an undefended world or join in an attack. Every ship I deny repair is a ship that is weakened.

I will do my part.

I will not fail.

The Dinochrome Brigade may be defeated in battle but we are never beaten.

I amUnit XXIX-TCSF 3285-ATL of the Line.

They are the Enemy.

And theEnemy exists only to be destroyed.

------------------

"I am nervous, Friend Terry," Nemta said, looking at the ship.

"So am I, kid," the Terran cyborg said. He looked down. "Really?"

Nemta knew without looking that the little hatchling that had been sneaking up on Friend Terry, drooling as it moved, was now chewing on one of Friend Terry's fingers.

The knowledge made him smile.

The ship was patchwork, damaged looking. A precision manufactured machine it was not. It was blocky in the wrong places and rounded in weird places. The drives slowly leaked energy even without the jumpcore powered. The weapon's banks were lopsided and the row of missile ports was crooked on one side and the line sagged in the middle on the other.

To Nemta, it was beautiful.

"We'll be finished loading tonight," Friend Terry said. He looked at Nemta, compassion in his eyes. "You all right with your decision kid?"

"If I go back, they'll kill me, but only after they extract the identities and species of every creature here to punish either them or their species," Nemta answered. His stomach churned for a moment, both from detox sickness and from the thought of his fellow refugees being killed.

"Touch decision, kid," Friend Terry said. "You decide where you're going?"

"With you," Nemta said. "Or at least somewhere in Terran Space where I can live out my days in peace."

Nemta looked at the broodcarrier carrying away the hatchling who was drooling with a smug expression.

"I've had enough of putting my boot on the necks of others or enabling someone else to plant their boot on another being's face," Nemta said.

He looked at the starship.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Nearest system that I know of that's under Confederate control," Friend Terry said.

"Where is that?" Nemta asked. He knew Friend Terry and the green mantids had been examining his flight computer all night and was curious as to which system they had chosen.

"Telkan."