The convoy advanced in silence.

  Dust billowed behind their vehicles, slow-moving clouds that hung over the dead landscape. Engines hummed in unison, a steady, unbroken rhythm as they pressed toward the wreckage ahead.

  CT-2214 led the column in a six-wheeled reconnaissance vehicle. Several exterior cameras were cracked, fractures spider webbing across their surfaces, but the vehicle remained operational. That was all that mattered.

  Behind him, eight-wheeled mine hauliers rumbled forward, their massive frames repurposed to carry personnel instead of minerals. APC's followed in tight formation, their armour scarred from past battles—some plates missing entirely, others hastily patched with salvaged plating.

  No one spoke.

  No one needed to.

  Inside the vehicles, clones sat motionless, weapons secured, visors locked forward. Their orders were simple retrieve the survivors. Nothing more.

  CT-9973, the driver of the lead haulier, spoke without shifting his gaze from the road.

  “Lethal dose detected. Progressing.”

  CT-2214 acknowledged immediately.

  “Maintain course.”

  Ahead, the wreck of the Expanse of Laglan loomed, half-buried in the lunar crust. Its once-mighty hull had been torn open on impact, entire sections collapsed inward like crushed ribs. Smoke still curled from its shattered interior, black streaks marking where acid attacks had melted through the plating. The radiation in the area pulsed with a dim, sickly glow, bleeding into the dust-filled sky.

  And yet, the distress beacon still flickered.

  As the convoy approached, figures emerged from the wreckage.

  Thirty clones. Shorter. Heavily armoured. Naval specialists—engineers, shipboard security, close-quarters fighters. Their armour was bulkier, and their weapons optimized for confined spaces.

  At their head stood something different.

  A quadrupedal exo-suit, towering over the others. Its upper body was humanoid, encased in thick plating, while its lower half moved on four reinforced legs. Two plasma cannons rested on its shoulders, still functional despite the crash.

  Inside, the pilot’s scaled features were barely visible behind the reinforced glass.

  Captain Frival.

  The exo-suit took a step forward, servos whirring. His voice crackled over an open channel.

  “Took you long enough.”

  CT-2214 stepped out of his vehicle. The smoke of the Expanse of Laglan reflected in his visor, his face unreadable. He gave no salute. No recognition of rank.

  He simply gestured to the hauliers.

  “Board.”

  Frival hesitated.

  Something was wrong.

  The clones were too quiet. Too precise. They moved efficiently, securing the hauliers with exact, almost mechanical gestures. No words. No wasted motion.

  His crew shifted uneasily, but they waited for his command.

  Frival clicked his comms. “Move.”

  One by one, the survivors climbed aboard. The convoy turned south, leaving the wreckage and the silence behind.

  Frival watched his rescuers from his seat in the haulier.

  Which fleet officer had won the bid for his rescue?

  His Nullite shares had been on the table for days, yet the negotiations had stalled before extraction. If the deal had gone through, someone should have contacted him by now.

  But the comms were silent.

  And so were the clones.

  There were only seven of his crew in the haulier with him. The others had been separated. Was it logistics? Or something else?

  He should have pressed for details. Should have demanded to know which fleet officer he now owed a crippling debt. But before he could speak, the world erupted in fire.

  The first explosion tore through the lead APC.

  The vehicle vanished in a fireball, its wreckage flipping end over end before crashing to a halt.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  No one screamed.

  No one panicked.

  The convoy adapted instantly, shifting formation as if the loss meant nothing. Turrets swivelled outward, locking onto the ridges above.

  Then the BCUs came.

  They poured from the lunar rock like living nightmares, their bodies blending seamlessly with the terrain.

  Faster than before. Faster than intel had predicted.

  One lunged onto a mine haulier, claws, and teeth digging in before it detonated, sending debris and shrapnel slicing through nearby vehicles. The wreck tumbled violently, crushing its surviving occupants before grinding to a stop.

  Frival reacted instantly. His exo-suit pivoted, plasma cannons locking onto the nearest target.

  He fired.

  Twin bolts of white-hot energy slammed into a BCU, its body bursting apart in a flash of seared flesh.

  His surviving crew opened fire, energy lances crackling in the dark.

  It wasn’t enough.

  From above, void BCUs descended, launching organic explosives onto the convoy.

  A second APC took a direct hit. The explosion split it open, bodies spilling into the vacuum.

  Frival calculated losses.

  Another haulier crushed. An APC lost. Eight crew dead.

  But then, he noticed something worse.

  The clones weren’t reacting.

  No shouts.

  No calls for support.

  No urgency.

  A vehicle was lost? They adjusted formation.

  A clone was killed? No one acknowledged it.

  Frival clenched his jaw. “We need to regroup! They’re cutting off our escape!”

  No response.

  Had this batch been modified more than usual? Or had they been altered specifically for this mission?

  CT-2214 continued issuing silent orders, adjusting for losses.

  They pushed forward, vehicles vanishing one by one.

  A haulier lost a wheel, flipped, and slid into the dust. No one stopped.

  An APC was breached. Its crew was dragged out, torn apart before they could react. No one called it in.

  Frival watched, a cold weight settling in his gut.

  These weren’t soldiers.

  They were machines in organic bodies.

  Finally, the last of the creatures fell behind.

  The convoy emerged from the ambush, battered and broken.

  Only seven of Frival’s crew remained.

  Only seven.

  He exhaled, a low growl in his throat. “I want a direct line to Command. Now.”

  CT-2214 didn’t even look at him.

  “Denied.”

  Frival’s exo-suit tensed. “What?”

  Then he saw them.

  Figures emerge from behind the rock formations.

  Tall. Bipedal. Unnatural.

  BCUs.

  But they weren’t attacking.

  They were waiting.

  Before he could react, his exo-suit froze.

  System errors detected.

  Only life support remained active.

  His remaining crew twitched in place, locked in their armour.

  Then the BCUs moved.

  Four arms. Six black eyes. Biological shells shifting like liquid, blending into the lunar terrain.

  They seized his crew without a sound.

  They grabbed him too. Dragged him toward the waiting figures. His exo-suit remained dead, controls unresponsive.

  CT-2214 watched him struggle. Then, for the first time, he spoke.

  “We were never ordered to save you.”

  Frival barely had time to register the words before he was lifted, strapped onto the back of a massive four-legged BCU variant.

  Five more surrounded it, moving in formation.

  As he was carried away, he could only watch the outpost in the distance.

  A split second before it was consumed by a massive explosion taking some of the convoy in the explosion.

  The convoy was gone.

  And he was being taken.

  Down into the quarry.

  Into a hidden tunnel.

  Into the darkness.