[System Reboot Complete.] [Date: Year 402 of the Eternal War. Location: Drop-Ship 'Icarus'.] [Time: 06:00 Hours.]
My eyes snapped open.
The smell of burning ozone was gone, replaced instantly by the smell of recycled air, stale sweat, and hydraulic fluid.
The roar of the orbital bombardment was replaced by the low, rhythmic thrum of the drop-ship's gravity engine.
I didn't gasp. I didn't scream. I just blinked, staring at the rusted metal ceiling. I counted to three in my head.
One. Two. Three.
"I think I'm gonna puke," the soldier next to me groaned.
"Lean forward, Private Miller," I said, my voice flat. "Use the bio-bag, not your helmet. You'll need the helmet's air filter in twenty minutes when the gas hits."
"H-huh?" Miller looked at me, pale and shaking. "How did you—"
Bleurgh.
He threw up into the bag exactly as the ship hit a turbulence pocket.
I sighed and leaned my head back against the vibrating metal wall. Life Number 5,002.
I looked down at my right arm.
It looked normal to everyone else—just a standard infantry sleeve. But I could feel the weight of it. Beneath the fabric was the Type-Zero: Ouroboros, the ancient gauntlet fused to my spine. Right now, it was cold. Dormant. Waiting for me to die so it could feed again.
I started running through the checklist.
The Rifle: The standard-issue MK-4 railgun has a jamming issue if the magnetic coils aren't aligned. I pulled mine apart and calibrated it in six seconds, my fingers moving on muscle memory alone.
The Boots: The mag-locks on the left boot fail if you sprint on wet concrete. I tightened the servo-clamp.
The Commander: She's coming in 3... 2... 1...
The blast doors at the front of the drop-ship hissed open.
The temperature in the bay dropped.
Walking through the steam was a woman who looked like she was carved out of ice and polished steel. She wore the pristine white uniform of High Command. Her silver hair was tied back in a severe bun.
Floating behind her, hovering silently like guardian angels, were six silver prisms—liquid metal drones.
The Type-Command: Laplace's Demon.
Her personal weapon. They didn't shoot bullets; they calculated the future trajectory of bullets and blocked them.
"Attention on deck!" the Sergeant screamed.
We all stood up. I stood up a fraction of a second before the order, simply because I was bored of waiting for the audio cue.
Vesper's eyes—sharp, violet, and hidden behind a pair of wire-frame glasses that constantly flashed with data streams—snapped to me instantly.
Crap. I moved too early. She noticed.
She walked down the line of soldiers, her boots clicking on the metal floor. The six drones floated in perfect synchronization behind her, scanning every soldier's face.
She stopped in front of me.
She was tall. Her eyes were level with mine. Up close, I could see the reflection of scrolling numbers in her eyes. She wasn't looking at me; she was calculating me.
"Name," she demanded.
"Specialist Caelum, Ma'am," I said, staring at the wall behind her.
"Pulse: 45 beats per minute," she read aloud, her voice tinged with suspicion. "We are about to drop into a hostile zone with a 78% casualty projection. Your squadmates have heart rates averaging 120. Yours is resting."
She leaned in closer. The drones behind her shifted, their tips glowing a faint, threatening blue.
"Why are you not afraid, Specialist? Is your amygdala malfunctioning?"
Because I've already died on this planet four hundred times, Vesper. The only thing I'm afraid of is how long it takes to calibrate your drones.
"I'm just conserving processor power, Ma'am," I lied smoothly. "Panic burns calories."
Vesper narrowed her eyes. Her glasses flashed. [ANALYZING].
"Check his gear," Vesper ordered the Sergeant, never breaking eye contact with me.
"Ma'am?" the Sergeant stammered.
"He calibrated his railgun's magnetic coils," Vesper observed, her voice sharp. "And he reinforced his boot mag-locks. He prepared for a swamp environment and prolonged firefights before the briefing was even given."
She stepped back, the ghost of a frown touching her lips. One of her drones drifted closer to my right arm, humming. It sensed the Ouroboros.
"You're either a veteran who falsified his service records," she whispered, low enough that only I could hear, "or you are a statistical anomaly."
The ship shook violently. BOOM.
Anti-air flak was hitting the hull. The lights turned red.
"Drop in T-Minus 60 seconds!" the pilot screamed over the intercom.
Vesper turned on her heel, her white coat flaring behind her. She walked to the command console near the door, but before she strapped in, she looked back at me one last time.
"Keep an eye on Unit 7," she said to the Sergeant. "If he dies... bring me his arm. I want to see what tech he's hiding under that sleeve."
I closed my eyes and sighed.
Great. Now she wants to dissect me.
"Welcome back to the war, Caelum," I muttered to myself.
[Ouroboros System: ACTIVE.] [Kinetic Charge: 0%.]
The floor dropped out from under us.
Here we go again.