The operations hub of U.S. Command was buried beneath layers of reinforced concrete and steel, humming with power. The air was heavy with recycled chill, the constant background thrum of servers, and the sharp smell of ozone from the wall of screens dominating the far end of the chamber.
General Harrison entered with the slow weight of a man who had seen too much war and carried more on his shoulders than he admitted. His boots echoed against the polished floor. Every officer at their terminals stiffened, acknowledging him with a brisk nod or salute.
Harrison didn't return it. His eyes fixed on the massive screens.
Dozens of feeds flickered across them live body-cam footage from the automatons. Machine-vision eyes sweeping across ruined towns, forests, desert plains. Some showed the burned-out husks of suburbs in Nevada where blackened insect carapaces littered the ground. Others revealed snow-swept tundra in Alaska, where machines dragged alien corpses into smoldering pits of fire. In one feed, a Worker cut into the frozen earth with a welding arm, while Scouts poured into a yawning hole, muzzle flashes bursting in rhythmic staccato against the dark.
"Report," Harrison said, voice low but carrying.
A captain hurried to his side, tablet in hand. "Sir, deployment has exceeded expectations. Units have been raiding insect hives underground across several states. We've equipped the frontlines with salvaged weapons machine guns, RPGs, heavy ordnance when possible. The automatons use them effectively."
Harrison squinted at the screens. One feed showed a construct firing a mounted machine gun down a tunnel, the rounds chewing into waves of clicking mandibles. Another leapt forward, blades out, tearing through the swarm with brute efficiency.
The captain hesitated. "But…"
"But?" Harrison's tone sharpened.
The younger man shifted his grip on the tablet. "Sir, the weapons help. But their core strength isn't marksmanship or firepower. It's brute force. When the ammunition runs dry, they don't hesitate they just tear through the insects with raw strength. Blades, claws, sheer weight of steel. The weapons slow them down more than anything else."
A low murmur passed through the nearby staff.
Harrison folded his arms, staring at one feed where an automaton had pinned a massive insect against the wall of a cavern, crushing its carapace under a reinforced claw. The insect screeched once, then fell silent.
The general gave a single nod. "Noted. Keep issuing arms for support, but don't make it standard. These things were built for war on their own terms."
"Yes, sir."
---
Later, Harrison walked into the briefing chamber. It was dimmer here, lit only by the projection of maps and tactical overlays across the center table. Around it sat the high brass men and women in immaculate uniforms, their decorations gleaming beneath the low light. Among them was General Veyra, sharp-eyed, her posture straight as if iron rods held her spine in place.
Harrison took his seat. Silence fell.
It was Veyra who spoke first. "The world is circling us. France, Australia, Russia, Iraq they don't believe our story. They want answers. They'll dig until they find them."
Another officer, General Whitmore, exhaled sharply. "And what will they find? That one man built this army in the middle of the desert? Do you realize how insane that sounds? Even to us?"
A colonel at the table leaned forward. "We've confirmed the truth, though. Nevada Command keeps sending reports. Production is skyrocketing. Hundreds of automatons by the week. And yet no factory. No contractor. Just… him. Whoever the hell he is."
General Veyra tapped the table. "That's the problem. We're protecting a ghost. If word leaks, we lose control of the narrative. Allies will think we're hoarding. Enemies will come hunting. And all the while, this 'inventor' keeps building unchecked."
Whitmore frowned. "We should consider the possibility that he's a threat. If one man can create this, then one man controls it. What if he turns against us?"
Harrison finally spoke, his voice calm but heavy. "And what if we push him too hard, and he walks away? You've all seen the feeds. These machines are winning battles we were losing. If we lose him, we lose our only edge."
The room fell quiet for a beat.
General Patel broke the silence. "Then what's the answer? Threaten him? Enlist him? Nationalize his work?"
"No," Veyra said firmly. "Not yet. He's already hiding. Already keeping himself off the books. If we move too hard, he'll vanish."
"Then what do you propose?" Harrison asked.
She folded her hands. "We go to him. In person. Not through liaisons, not through layers of red tape. The top brass. We request no, insist on visiting his outpost. We see firsthand how he builds these machines."
Murmurs of approval, though wary.
Harrison's eyes narrowed. "And if he refuses?"
Veyra didn't flinch. "Then we make it clear that refusal is not an option. But our opening move is diplomacy. He may be reclusive, but he's still human. We appeal to him. Make him see the bigger picture."
Whitmore leaned forward. "Diplomacy's fine. But let's be honest we're not just going there to look. We need those blueprints. If he can create automatons at this scale, then with military industry behind him, we could mass-produce them by the tens of thousands. End this war in months, not years."
The table hummed with quiet assent.
General Patel muttered, "So we visit him. Shake his hand. Tell him he's a patriot. And then we buy him out."
Harrison's jaw tightened. He looked around the table at the eager, calculating faces of his peers. Men and women who spoke in measured tones but thought in terms of power and leverage.
He finally said, "We'll go. But mark my words this isn't just about blueprints. This is about the man. If we mishandle him, if he walks, we're back to square one. Worse, we hand him straight into the arms of the nations breathing down our necks."
Veyra's gaze locked with his. "Then we don't mishandle him. We go with open hands. But we leave with his designs."
The silence that followed was agreement enough.
The plan was set.
---
Serap stood on the balcony of the outpost's upper gantry, her hands resting on the cold steel rail. Below her, the yard was alive with motion. Automatons moved like clockwork scouts darting from shadow to shadow, their four arms a blur as they scaled walls to inspect sentry positions, while workers marched in steady columns, hauling crates of scavenged weapons, feeding them into the storage pits, or dragging insect carcasses toward the smelters.
The ground vibrated faintly as a forge roared to life, molten slag pouring into molds. Sparks flew in showers of orange. The air was thick with the scent of oil, hot metal, and charred alien chitin.
She should have been used to it by now. But the truth was Serap couldn't look away. The machines were mesmerizing. They weren't just tools. They fought like soldiers, labored like builders, watched like hounds. Their motions carried a rhythm that was almost… alive.
A nearby scout, perched on the roof of the storage depot, swiveled its head toward her at the sound of her voice. Its four eyes flashed briefly with cold light before turning back toward the dunes. Serap shivered, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Then the console at the edge of the gantry chimed. A message had come through.
She walked to it briskly, the hum of the outpost's walls vibrating faintly through her boots. Her eyes scanned the text once, then again, her breath catching. The names struck her like hammer blows.
For a moment she simply stood there, frozen.
"Mother?" she whispered. Her hand rose instinctively to her lips.
Serap steadied herself, but her fingers still trembled against the console. She turned on her heel, hurrying down the corridor toward Ethan's quarters.
The hallway was dim, illuminated by pale strips of light along the ceiling. She stopped outside his door, exhaling before knocking.
There was no answer.
She pressed her palm lightly against the metal door. "We received word. A delegation is coming this afternoon. High brass. Generals. My mother… General Veyra… she'll be with them."
Silence.
Serap hesitated, chewing her lip. The recycled air felt heavy in her lungs. Finally she straightened and spoke a little louder. "They're not coming here to shake your hand. You know what they'll want. Control. Designs. They'll dig until they find something they can own."
There was a click from inside the room, the faint sound of movement. His voice came, muffled through the steel but unmistakably firm.
"Let them come."
Serap blinked, startled. "You're certain?"
"They'll want blueprints." His tone was flat, as if he had already walked through the entire game in his mind. "They'll smile, they'll ask questions, they'll pretend to be friendly. But in the end, they'll want control."
Serap pressed closer to the door, lowering her voice. "Then why agree to it? You could refuse. You could vanish."
A pause, then: "Because refusing only feeds their fear. If they see nothing, they'll invent stories. Monsters are always bigger in the imagination."
The words carried a quiet weight that made her chest tighten.
She whispered, "So you'll show them?"
"No." His answer was sharp. "I'll let them think they see."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the hum of the walls filled the silence. Finally, Serap stepped back. Her fingers lingered on the door before falling away.
"I'll make the arrangements," she said, her voice gentler now. "But… be careful, they don't see you the way I do. To them, you're a resource. Nothing more."
From behind the door came only silence. But Serap felt, in some unspoken way, that he had heard.
---
By afternoon, the desert skies throbbed with the thunder of rotors. The outpost trembled as a massive military helicopter descended, its blades kicking up waves of sand that whipped across the perimeter walls. Scouts crouched low, their eyes flashing as they tracked the aircraft. Workers halted their labor briefly, heads turning in eerie unison.
The machine touched down with a final roar, its hatch opening with hydraulic hiss.
Stepping out were figures in crisp uniforms, their ribbons and stars gleaming even in the harsh desert sun. Hardened faces, eyes that had stared down decades of war and politics. Soldiers saluted automatically, though no one here wore a U.S. uniform.
At their head was General Veyra, her stride unyielding, her gaze sweeping over the outpost like a commander inspecting foreign ground.
Serap stood at the top of the gantry, watching her mother approach.