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1. Survival Instincts

Auren hauledass through the trench, screaming warnings to the others that they were about to be overrun. His voice was hoarse from the effort. He wasn't even supposed to be here. He was a chef, not a soldier. But they'd all been forced through basic training when conscripted to their roles a year ago. The accelerator rifle slung over his shoulder was an unwanted reminder of that.

"They're coming!" Auren shrieked.

A group of men huddled around a holo-game in the dirt nearby, oblivious to what was coming their way.

"What did you say, Private?" one of the soldiers muttered in annoyance. He gave Auren a scolding look as though he was insufferable for screaming at them, and then returned to his game.

"Fucking idiot," the man muttered. He gave Auren the finger and motioned for him to shoo along. Auren merely stared at him, his eyes wide with fear, far too passive to do anything else.

A distant boom, followed by first one and then innumerable screams, commanded the older man's attention in a way Auren hadn't been able to. Auren didn't wait for an apology. He was terrified. He sprinted off without a second glance, warning anyone he came across of the danger when he could find his voice. The sound of battle had grown to a rumbling thunder that was impossible to ignore. His warnings quickly became huffed and futile as he ran desperately onward, unable to bellow loud enough to be heard. He eventually abandoned issuing them altogether, focusing instead on maintaining his cadence—on trying to survive.

At last, Auren crashed into the wall of the support module where he had worked for the past few months. He doubled over and tried desperately to catch his breath. He was still gasping, and his hand shook as he entered the keycode for the unit's door. On his third attempt, a chime confirmed he'd finally gotten it right and the door slid open. Behind him, the sound of Armageddon raged on. The horror of the screaming was endless now as the human position on this far-flung world was pounced on and trampled by their alien foe.

"What is it? What's going on out there?" Hien demanded as Auren stumbled into the module. The woman was one of his fellow chefs and a far more committed soldier than he. She looked him up and down and then scowled.

"Give me that," she said sharply, ripping the gun from his shoulder and making to leave the module.

"Hey, Hien, stop! It's dangerous out there!"

"That's the point, Auren. How dare you run." Hien flung her apron to the ground and hurried out to join the other soldiers.

She'd always struck him as brave, and his face burned at her words. He watched her go, and the shame struck him like a bullet. But he pushed past it. For what it was worth, Auren had always expected to discover himself when push came to shove. A boyish part of him had always believed he'd rise to an occasion like this and prove himself a hero. But as it turned out, he was far from it. He'd picked flight, not fight. It had been instinctive—animal, even. It was what he did. It's what he'd always done. And it was the only reason he was still alive.

Auren looked frantically around the module for a weapon or something he could defend himself with when they finally reached him. He found nothing. His heart thudded in his chest as a cold sweat trickled down his back. The sound of something, or someone, crashing against the side of the module nearly made him piss himself.

No one had ever seen the invaders and lived. Sure, news agencies and intelligence units had recorded the grizzly, blood-smeared aftermath of battlefields across the settled systems. But that was always long after they'd departed. And the analysis was bleak each time: the enemy had weapons even humanity wasn't cruel enough to dream of, and they were coming for us—they were winning.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Auren muttered.

He banged open supply cabinet after supply cabinet and found nothing but cooking pots, pans, and pre-wrapped food. A fresh series of explosions caused the entire module to lift slightly and then slam to the ground. He crashed to the floor. The clattering of silverware and plates did its part to unnerve him further as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Overhead, a chorus of sonic booms informed him that the fighter craft from their flagship in orbit had just entered the atmosphere, hopefully buying him some precious time with their cover fire.

Auren gave up on his search for a weapon—a weapon hadn't been his plan A anyway. He gripped the keycard in his pocket with a clammy hand. He'd made the impromptu decision to steal it just minutes ago when delivering lunch to the fortified command bunker on the front lines. The top brass had been informed of the enemy fleet's incursion in-system as he served them their synthetic ham-and-cheese sandwiches. The keycard had been right there, and so he'd taken it.

He couldn't make any excuses. When he'd seen the opportunity to get himself out of here lying there, all the pieces of a plan fell into place instantly and automatically. His brain, hypervigilant from trauma, had recorded all the details necessary for him to preserve himself without hiseven being aware it was doing it.

Auren was many things, but he wasn't a soldier. Conscription had brought him here, and he had no loyalty to their cause. What he was was a survivor—and when those primitive instincts to carry on kicked in, he found there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep himself safe. Growing up in the underworld of Obila had forced him to learn the endurance sport of self-preservation.

Auren clutched the card and sprinted from the kitchen module. He crossed outside, ducking low as human fighters screamed overhead, unloading payloads of lethal retribution. A naive part of him imagined they might turn the tide of the battle… but then, a series of explosions denuded him of that possibility.

The screaming had abated somewhat, and a part of him knew that it was because there were already few people left to scream. The battalion had numbered in the tens of thousands…

A cold, detached calm settled over him as he swiped the general's keycard and entered the medical lab. He'd never been in here before. It was sleek. And empty. Evidently, he was the biggest coward on Vesperion. In the universe, maybe. But he couldn't bring himself to care. He searched the space for what he had heard the brass talking about over a series of lunch meetings the past few weeks. They hadn't even noticed him listening.

There.

He'd spotted it: the neural uplink relay. The tech looked odd, its design almost inhuman. Auren hesitated, then crawled into the device's bed. His entire body shook with nerves as he put on a strange headset, unsure what to expect from the experimental technology. From the little he'd understood from his eavesdropping, the tech could allegedly upload and transmit consciousness. It was being field-tested for wide-scale deployment on many fronts, and had been in secret for some time. In theory, it would allow for casualty-free evacuations. For now, it was supposed to be reserved for guys like the general, but that wouldn't stop Auren from doing what he was about to do. Anything was better than dying.

He flipped the tech on and clicked through a series of warning screens and disclaimers.

Proceed?

"Yes!" he yelped.

A series of holes blasted through one end of the module, shearing it clean apart and exposing it to the outside.

"Go!" he yelled.

The tube began to hum around him. He grew sleepy as mechanical arms probed and jabbed. The last thing he remembered was a dull pressure against his skull as a saw began to cut him open. And then he slipped into the shadows.

The machine went instantly to work, sedating him and carving his brain into neat little slices, uploading a map of him into a data stream and transmitting the binary code that was now Auren off-world.

He was dead. But a part of him had survived.

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