Aegirarch did not believe in boredom.

  A weak mind could succumb to it, but his was always occupied, always calculating. Even now, as he gazed into the infinite void beyond his ship’s hull, his thoughts churned through simulations, probabilities, and contingencies.

  There was always something to analyse, a new strategy to refine, an opportunity to exploit.

  His exo-suit flexed as he drifted across the ship’s surface, manoeuvring thrusters firing in short bursts. The black hull, striped with deep orange, was pristine, just as it should be. He scanned for imperfections, anomalies, and anything that warranted correction. Nothing.

  Efficient and predictable, as it should be.

  His virtual intelligence chimed, breaking the silence.

  Incoming transmission: Science Division Head, Kraklak. Estimated lag: 72 seconds.

  Aegirarch clicked his mandibles in mild irritation. The time delay was an acceptable inefficiency but an inefficiency nonetheless.

  “Kraklak, have you contacted me with something of actual importance?” He adjusted his trajectory, thrusters angling him toward the airlock. As it cycled shut behind him.

  He moved deeper inside, the low hum of machines accompanied by the soft strains of a classical melody from his home world. The piece told the story of two great oceans meeting, a violent clash of colours and currents, fighting for dominance—an apt parallel to his situation.

  The transmission connected. Kraklak’s voice was clinical, devoid of unnecessary emotion, something was wrong.

  “There has been a situation on the moon. Six ships were destroyed. No confirmed hostile engagement. The latest BCU variants are… unavailable for study.”

  Aegirarch halted.

  “Unavailable? Has containment been breached? Has the anomaly constructed a new weapon, or is this another example of Varos-Thek incompetence?”

  “Neither. The anomaly has not been observed launching an attack. No drones. No visible forces. And yet, ships were lost.”

  Aegirarch’s mandibles tightened. Unacceptable. He entered a chamber, water filling the space around him as he disengaged from his suit.

  Weightlessness returned, a comfort to his species. He swam forward, gliding into the command sphere, where data streams wrapped around him in projected holograms.

  “And what is the new commander doing about this… mess?” He pulled up fleet movements, base deployments, and Varos-Thek’s latest orders. “Shouldn’t you be reporting this to him?”

  “Varos-Thek is overburdened. He has overplayed his hand.”

  “Clarify.”

  “He targeted weaker shareholders within the consortium, leveraging security concerns to buy out their holdings at a fraction of their value. In doing so, he refused to protect their mining operations, destabilizing the entire structure.”

  Aegirarch exhaled slowly. Greed. Short-sighted, unrestrained greed.

  “And?”

  “Some reports suggest he has ordered clone forces to turn on each other. The surface is a chaos of conflicting directives.”

  Aegirarch reviewed the latest intelligence. The battlefield was riddled with inconsistencies. Clone squads ignoring orders. Defensive perimeters abandoned without reason. Entire sectors are unresponsive to commands.

  “Has friendly fire been confirmed?”

  “Two ships sustained minor damage, one was lost, and the crew managed to evacuate. The anomaly did not attempt to intercept them.”

  “And the remaining fleet?”

  “Four ships have pulled back under direct orders from their owners, prioritizing mine security over military operations. Others might soon follow."

  Aegirarch leaned back, fingers tapping rhythmically against the interface.

  “You contacted me because they want me to take command.”

  “Correct. But they will not meet your new hiring cost.”

  He allowed himself a quiet chuckle. Predictable.

  “Then I will observe. My fleet remains stationary. It will not move until my terms are accepted.”

  “Understood.”

  Aegirarch shifted his attention.

  “You mentioned the BCU variants could not be studied. Explain.”

  “Dead variants are experiencing rapid decomposition. The breakdown accelerates when multiple living variants are not in proximity. The effect has made study impossible.”

  “A mutation?”

  “Perhaps. We are adopting a wait-and-see approach until command stabilizes some sectors.”

  Aegirarch sneered. Wait-and-see? Such passive strategies had no place in his doctrine. He preferred absolutes.

  “Are you still on the surface?”

  “Yes. We are gathering data. The potential breakthroughs—”

  “Are irrelevant if you cannot control them. If I were you, I would reconsider my position before the anomaly does it for me.”

  There was silence on the other end. Aegirarch smirked.

  “If you insist on staying, at least add my name to the research. I assume you'll charge appropriately.”

  “Of course.”

  The transmission cut. Aegirarch floated in silence, his gaze drifting over the quiet screens, the music continuing to play.

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  “It seems your failure has arrived earlier than anticipated, Varos-Thek.”

  He could only silently curse the anomaly “Netheros” It had survived multiple extermination attempts, weathering orbital bombardments, full-scale invasions, and sustained attrition warfare.

  It was a parasite on his carefully cultivated domain, one that, despite his best efforts, refused to be terminated. The latest etheric reports indicated its influence was growing, spreading unseen tendrils through avenues they barely understood.

  The etheric plane had always been a source of irrationality throughout the galaxy. They whispered myths of spirits, gods, and lost souls trapped within its depths. Some civilizations had wasted centuries building religions upon its mysteries, mistaking the unknown for the divine.

  Aegirarch dismissed such foolishness. The etheric plane was nothing more than another facet of reality, one they had yet to fully quantify. That did not make it mystical, it simply made it inconvenient.

  Still, the data was undeniable. His specialists had recorded exponential growth in the anomaly’s etheric presence. The projections suggested that if left unchecked, it could expand to dominate the entire local etheric plane, possibly beyond. The implications of such dominance were unknown. That uncertainty was unacceptable.

  He pulled up a secondary display. The etheric clones assigned to track the anomaly were deteriorating faster than expected. Out of five hundred, only two hundred and forty-one remained stable. The rest had suffered a complete mental collapse and had to be… retired.

  Visual reports painted a picture of something impossible—an ever-growing storm, a vortex of shifting, unreadable energy.

  It defied logic, reason, and structure. The simulations projected a singular outcome escalation. Either the anomaly would collapse under its instability… or it would evolve. Aegirarch exhaled. He preferred the first scenario.

  “Reevaluate the estimates,” Aegirarch commanded, his voice flat. “If the anomaly's influence continues on its current trajectory, how long before it directly interferes with all solar system operations?”

  The intelligence compiled the calculations. Seconds later, the response appeared on his data feed.

  Projected interference: Eight standard cycles. The margin of error: 6 standard cycles

  Eight cycles. Aegirarch found the time frame… insufficient. He preferred decades to plan, and centuries to consolidate. Eight cycles was a brief window, a warning sign that demanded immediate adjustment.

  He would ensure Varos-Thek’s incompetence was fully realized before stepping in to reclaim control.

  After all, power was meaningless without wealth. And one could never have enough wealth.

  ———

  CTE-343 sat motionless in the sterile black chamber with three intersected circles on the wall, his hands twitched against the smooth surface of the chair. The facility was pristine—too clean.

  The rhythmic hum of machines filled the silence, a constant, artificial heartbeat. It was meant to soothe his mind, but it didn’t.

  His four eyes blinked erratically, pupils dilating and contracting like a failing mechanism. His mind teetered on the edge of something deep, something wrong.

  His brothers sat beside him, identical in posture, identical in vacancy. Their breathing remained measured, their suits unblemished, but they were not here.

  They had been taken.

  It had begun with a glimpse.

  Not a full vision, not a message or a warning, just a flicker. A sliver of existence that should not be. That could not be.

  But it had seen them anyway.

  Now, it was his turn.

  The control chip in his skull forced his mind upward, wrenching his thoughts from the solid into the etheric.

  And he saw.

  The anomaly did not simply exist, it commanded. The chaotic realm bent around it, twisting, obeying, pulsing.

  The laws of reality broke and reformed instantly. A wound in space, gaping and hungry. Thought and matter blurred at its edges, swallowed whole, reshaped into something unnatural.

  Then the whispers came.

  Not words. Not voices. Something else. A constant flood of communication shifting, merging, multiplying, a network of unseen minds layering over his own. His consciousness cracked beneath its weight, splintering as the whispers dug into him.

  His teeth clenched when he saw it.

  A shape moved beyond the chaos. Not vast, not towering—endless.

  A shifting mass of grey chitin, multiple black eyes, pupils stretching and contracting in unnatural rhythms. It was not watching him.

  It was inside him.

  Tendrils unfurled, dark and slick, threading through the folds of space. Something dripped. Something grew.

  And then—his voice whispered back, layered and alien, not his own.

  “Don't worry, your suffering will end soon.”

  CTE-343’s three-fingered hand clenched into a trembling fist. His body remained still. Perfect. Composed. Functional.

  But inside—inside, CTE-343 was slowly absorbed and replaced, becoming another node of Trumek.