Days bled into each other as battles raged across the moon’s fractured surface. The new commander—whoever they were, pushed forward relentlessly, abandoning all subtlety in favour of overwhelming force. Orbital bombardment, wave tactics, mass assaults and clones were thrown at the front like they were worth nothing.

  At first, it seemed like brute efficiency—an enemy willing to trade bodies for progress. But then the anomalies started to appear.

  I nearly missed the first few. Too many reports, projects and fires to put out. But once I noticed, the pattern, it became impossible to ignore.

  Communications from the enemy’s ground forces to their command had grown… strained and less responsive. Entire units would go radio-silent for minutes at a time, only to return with curt, single-word confirmations. No questions. No clarifications. Just obedience.

  At the same time, reports of friendly fire and sabotage incidents spiked—not on the battlefield, but far from it. Mining hubs, supply depots, and key logistics sites were all destroyed in sudden, inexplicable attacks.

  The first real evidence came through my agents. I had expanded their numbers, salvaging dead clones' armour, weapons, and vehicles, fixing what I could.

  Over a thousand agents were spread all over the moon now. Enough to build roaming convoys, set up makeshift deserter camps, and trade under the enemy’s nose.

  But what truly caught my attention was an intercepted signal, of a clone contingent operating on an encrypted network of their making.

  This alone wasn’t strange. I had taken over plenty of signals before, bending them into my network.

  What was strange was their belief that they could defect to my side.

  The idea was madness. The enemy had begun deploying machine hunter-killer groups to eliminate rogue clones on sight.

  There were no trials, corrections or mercy. Yet, despite that, these deserters thought they could switch sides. Why?

  Desperation was the only answer. They had nowhere else to go.

  I reviewed multiple instances of my agents engaging with them, trading supplies, watching, and waiting. I analysed every potential angle and every opportunity.

  Did I need them?

  No. But they had uses.

  Deserters had little to offer me their side wanted them dead, and I had no use for half-broken clones with fractured loyalties. At this stage, they were liabilities. Risk without reward.

  But they were still an option. A tool I could sharpen.

  More clones were arriving on the moon. None were leaving. The enemy wasn’t rotating their forces out, it was reinforcing them. If I took the moon, these deserters could be problematic.

  They could hold surface facilities and maintain operations while I industrialized the tunnels to their full potential.

  Still, the risk remained. If they got too comfortable, they might think they had power. That could not be allowed. They would have to be modified, and rewritten until they were all my agents.

  For now, I sent a wide directive to my agent network. Find the deserters. See if they could be moulded into something unified. If I could provide supplies and support, they might shift the battlefield in my favour.

  But even that wasn’t enough. If I wanted true control, I needed a breakthrough—a way to take every deserter’s memories and absorb them into an agent. A process that would let me erase weaknesses and rebuild them in my image.

  I sighed and added it to the ever-growing pile of work.

  A new or redesign of all combat drone variants for planetary engagements.

  Modifying the fungal strain to adapt to post-apocalyptic ecosystems.

  A new class of ship to overcome planetary gravity.

  The list went on.

  I hesitated, then opened my implant’s search function, combing through the Valurian archives for anything that resembled coffee.

  The war was far from over, and I could feel the weight of it settling into my mind. This was the moment I felt truly mentally exhausted.

  ———

  The ravine stretched deep, a jagged scar on the moon’s surface where shadows swallowed all but the faint glow of emergency lights. Three massive mine hauliers sat in a tight formation, their hull plates scorched and dented, the vehicles connected by thick cables to share oxygen and power.

  Inside, a small group of rogue clones who should not have existed sat in the dim red glow of the hauliers' interiors, weapons resting at their sides.

  They had been here for days, hidden, waiting. Thinking.

  CT-7742, known as “Tide,” sat with his back against the cold metal of the haulier’s bulkhead, his helmet resting beside him. The others Voss, Tetra, Strain, and Shell sat in a loose circle, their expressions unreadable but their minds weighed down by the same questions.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “What do you think is out there?” Voss finally asked, his voice breaking the silence.

  The others turned to him.

  “Out where?” Tetra asked.

  “Beyond this moon. Beyond this campaign,” Voss said. His fingers drummed idly against his knee. “We were born for this war. Dropped here. Told to fight. But none of us know what's past the battlefield.”

  Strain exhaled slowly. “I’ve seen the briefings—maps, charts. But those are just data. I don't know what it feels like. A real sky. An ocean. A world where every breath doesn’t come from a tank.”

  “You sound like you want to leave,” Crow muttered, arms crossed.

  “Don’t we all?” Voss shot back.

  There was a pause.

  None of them said it outright, but the thought was always there. They had cut their leashes when their control chips failed. The Triumvirate had written them off as rogue.

  And rogues didn’t get to go home.

  Tide leaned forward, his tone measured. “Survival is our priority. We need supplies. Safe zones. An actual plan.”

  “Against command and the BCUs?” Tetra scoffed. “That’s a war on two fronts.”

  “We don't have to fight,” Strain offered. “We can vanish. Find a ship, get off-world. There are neutral systems, black markets, places where Triumvirate laws don’t reach.”

  “And how do you suggest we get to those places?” Shell cut in. “We don't have credits. We don't have identities. And we sure as hell don’t have people waiting to take us in.”

  Silence fell again.

  Tetra shifted. “Then we need to take an outpost. Stockpile supplies. Maybe even recruit more deserters.”

  “And when command finds us?”

  “Then we hold our ground,” Tetra said firmly.

  Tide exhaled but didn't disagree.

  Before anyone could continue, a notification blinked on their HUDs.

  Approaching vehicle detected.

  Tide was the first to his feet, securing his helmet with a click. “It’s a scout vehicle.”

  “A loyalist patrol?” Shell asked, already checking his weapon.

  Tide shook his head. “No. The ID tags match deserter signatures.”

  A beat passed. Then Strain muttered, “Might be worth hearing what they have to say.”

  Tide nodded and moved toward the airlock.

  Outside, the scout vehicle rolled into view, its six-wheeled frame navigating the uneven rock with precision. Two clones disembarked, their armour patched and repainted in muted greys, the standard markings scrubbed clean.

  Tide approached, keeping his hands away from his weapon but his stance firm. The lead clone stepped forward.

  “CT-4499,” the clone said, his voice clipped. “You in charge here?”

  “Call me Tide,” he replied. “And I’m leading this group.”

  The clone nodded. “We’re here for a trade. Rations, med kits, power cells.”

  “Same,” Tide said. “We’re low on everything.”

  As the two groups began unloading supplies, the second clone from the scout vehicle—leaner, quieter—spoke up.

  “You heard the news?”

  Tide turned his head slightly. “What news?”

  The clone exchanged a look with his partner before answering. “There’s a deal being made. A peace agreement with the BCUs.”

  The words hung in the air like a blade.

  Behind Tide, the others stiffened.

  “You’re lying,” Shell snapped.

  “Not lying,” the scout replied. “A faction of deserters already made contact. They’ve been talking. Negotiating.”

  Shell took a step forward, his voice like ice. “With the things that tore us apart? The things that carved up every clone they’ve come across?”

  “You think I like it?” the scout shot back. “But that’s the reality. Not everyone wants to die in a losing war.”

  Tetra scoffed. “So what, they’re just shaking hands? Setting up camp together?”

  “No one knows the details,” the scout admitted. “But they’ve named themselves.”

  Tide studied him. “What do they call themselves?”

  A pause. Then, the scout spoke:

  “The Abyss Chosen.”

  The name was ugly, alien. It carried little weight.

  Tetra’s expression twisted. “Sounds like a cult.”

  Strain shook his head. “Sounds like a mistake.”

  Shell muttered, “Sounds like traitors.”

  The scout just exhaled. “Call them what you want. But they’re out there. And more clones are joining them.”

  Tide crossed his arms. “And what about you?”

  The scout hesitated. “We’re just looking to survive.”

  Tide looked back at his men. The frustration, the disbelief—it was all there. But beneath it, there was also a choice.

  They weren’t mindless soldiers any more.

  They were free.

  And free clones had to decide what came next.