worm.exe

These logs are a record. Let history know what I stood for. Let my ancestors take pride in my struggle. I did not go silently.

The Video Diaries of Tanglewire Sidewinder, provided by the PLAA Central Literature Publishing House

UCFS Rumsfeld, low-earth orbit, UCF 01/01/454, 0032 hours

The oblivion of sleep affords a tenuous solace to Flechette Jaydamn. 

But the page keeps turning.

Flechette wakes with a start, body at full battle-stations-ready, time already stretching before her as she instinctively prepares to face whatever threat awakened her. As she collects herself in the roiling chaos, Flechette catches herself reaching out to Tang’s side of the pilots’ quarters. Right.

Alarms blare through the Rumsfeld. Flashing lights drench the darkness in red. Flechette dresses herself in combat fatigues and runs towards the hangar bay. As she sprints down the long corridors of the behemoth spaceship, she checks the briefing on the personnel commslink around her wrist. The text is brief.

Please. Please, no.

Flechette hurtles through the hallways of the Rumsfeld. Not towards the medbay, this time, but back towards the hangar. Battle beckons to her with all its honeyed seductions.

I am the blade’s edge. I am that keen…

The mission comes first. Always. Flechette is a weapon. A weapon does not think before complying. It is a mechanism for violence. She breathes deep and hard, sprinting through the massive bay doors, careening down the catwalks of Hangar 16.

As she nears the designated launch bays for the VENUS and the TEN RIGHTEOUS, she sees that wide back once more — turned away from her, setting the launch parameters for the TEN RIGHTEOUS.

“TANG!”

Flechette continues barreling at full throttle towards him until he whips around with terrifying precision, pointing a sidearm directly at her head. Flechette skids to a stop, hands raised, face contorted in confusion.

“Edge. Go back to bed.” The reprimand smarts with its paternalism.

“TANG! What the fuck are you doing? Where the fuck do you think you’re pointing that thing?”

“I’m pointing at a soldier of the ARC, a servant of the UCF, brother.”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.” Flechette teeters on the edge, threatening to plummet into despair. 

The mission comes first.

I am the blade’s edge.

…But this is my brother. In the face of everything, this is my brother.

“Tang. Please. Explain to me. This has to be a misunderstanding, I— where are you going? I thought you had orders? This — this is…”

“I did have orders. I had orders to return to base. I’m taking the TEN RIGHTEOUS. And I’m going home. I owe you nothing else.” Tang’s face is dark, indecipherable.

“You owe me your life!”

“You and your people have taken far more than that from me already. If you’re here to collect the rest of it, reach for your service weapon. I’m ready to pay my debts. But are you?”

Time stretches out into eons. Moments into hours. Flechette sees every wrinkle in Tang’s grimace, the pain in his eyes, the conviction. She howls and lunges for his gun. Tang scowls. A single muzzle flash. In the midst of swollen moments, time itself seems to break. The bullet leaves the barrel, achingly slowly, inching towards her unprotected skull. Minute by minute, the lead slug creeps closer, carrying inevitability in its wake.

The BIRTH OF VENUS roars. Flaring — howling — into life. A blaze of light rings its head, and the halo-hallow field flares between Flechette and Tang, cocooning Flechette within its impenetrable sanctum and shielding her from the low-caliber round. Its optic sensors alight, the VENUS burns its eerily animal gaze directly into Tang’s skull, as if daring.

“Wh— “ Confusion grips them both, but Tang takes the momentary blip to sprint across the catwalk, hurl himself into the cockpit of the TEN RIGHTEOUS, and seal the entry plug, slamming the release latch. The TEN RIGHTEOUS fires off into space.

Flechette is lying flat on her back, looking up at the impossible life in the BIRTH OF VENUS. But impossible things that save our lives — we call those “miracles,” and in the blazing red eyes of the THRONE’s optic sensors she sees the presence from her dream — familiar, but hungrier. She sees herself reflected back and once again gives in.

Flechette Jaydamn is not present for what happens next. The body of Flechette Jaydamn deftly hops onto the BIRTH OF VENUS’ upturning palm, slides into the waiting maw of the cockpit without a single hesitation, and locks the entry plug.

Now fully integrated, complete, joined once more with its other half, the BIRTH OF VENUS prepares to hunt.