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THIRTY-TWO




Marty’s mind raced as he gathered the team in a small, dimly lit room. The walls seemed to close in around them as he recounted what he’d seen at the trading outpost and at the waiting area beyond the magma tube—the flattened tents, the eerie silence, the missing Grays. He could see the tension on everyone’s faces, a mixture of fear and determination as they tried to process what this meant.

“Yotto,” Marty said, his voice steady but urgent, “the outside waiting area looks like a war zone. The Grays are gone—vanished. It’s like something swept through there and left nothing but destruction.”

Yotto’s expression darkened, his thin lips pressed into a grim line. “The trading post is not always populated, as we’ve instructed the humans to come only during the daylight. However, what you saw outside is disturbing,” he muttered. He quickly turned to one of his assistants, a tall, slender Edu with silver-gray skin. “Go. Check the outpost. See if the Herders have broken the peace with the humans. Report back to me, and to me only, as soon as you confirm the situation.”

The assistant nodded and left without a word, moving with a haste that only deepened Marty’s sense of dread.

“There’s nothing that can be done right now, but I promise you that we will learn what it is you saw and then we can formulate a response. In the meantime,” Yotto continued, “I would like to follow up on some of our prior discussions and gather more data from you. I’ll also show you your sleeping quarters.” He motioned for the team to follow him, leading them through a series of corridors until they reached his lab. The space was filled with strange equipment, blinking lights, and displays of alien symbols that flickered across translucent screens. The room buzzed with a low hum of energy, making Marty’s skin prickle.

“I’ve been thinking about that smell of yours,” Yotto remarked.

“Smell?” Marty asked.

“Yes, the scent you all give off. Maybe your sense of smell is not as sensitive as that of the Edu, but you all clearly have an aroma about you that is unique. It has a very unique yet familiar smell. Either way, I think a simple chemistry analysis will help clear up some questions.”

Marty glanced at the others, who looked a bit apprehensive, and he turned to Yotto and offered his arm. “Okay, go ahead and take your sample. Let’s get this over with.”

Yotto gestured for Marty to sit in a high-backed chair resembling a dentist’s chair, except that each arm had a flat metal sensor where your palm might rest. Marty hesitated for a moment but then complied, feeling the cold metal beneath his hands as he gripped the armrests.

“We’ll start by taking a small blood sample,” Yotto said, his tone clinical. He activated the console in the center of the room and tapped on a few symbols. Marty felt his chair click. “Okay, all done.”

“What?” Marty furrowed his brows with confusion. “I don’t understand. Done with what, exactly?”

“The sample has been taken.” Yotto pointed at the chair. “Those sensors on the armrests contain an array of microneedles. I’m not sure about human anatomy, but for the Edu, the needles penetrate only the outmost layer of our skin, which is above the pain receptors, but low enough to capture some interstitial fluids as well as minute amounts of blood.”

Marty stared at the palms of his hands and saw a couple of red splotches that weren’t painful at all.

Yotto pointed above the console he was working on and a holographic image flickered to life in the air above them, displaying a magnified view of what looked like blood cells as well some bar graphs with alien symbols on them.

Marty leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined the image. The red blood cells were unmistakable, but there were other things—tiny dots that seemed to float among them, almost like poppy seeds.

“What are we looking at?” François asked.

“Marty’s blood chemistry and a close-up of the cells themselves . . .” Yotto’s gaze was fixed on the image. He raised his hand, made an outward motion with his thin fingers, and the image zoomed in, focusing on the tiny dots.

As the magnification increased, Marty’s breath caught in his throat. The dots weren’t just specks—they had structure, form. And as the details sharpened, they took on a familiar, unsettling shape.

“It’s . . . It looks like a scarab beetle,” Marty whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief. The tiny gold-hued figure was intricately designed, with golden filaments extending from its body like delicate tendrils.

Yotto’s eyes widened, clearly as shocked as the rest of them. “Have you been in any of the Edu biological labs?” he asked, his voice almost accusatory.

Marty shook his head, confused. “No, of course not. I don’t understand . . . what is that?”

Yotto exhaled slowly, running his hand over his hairless head. “These . . . these are nanites. They’re incredibly advanced—machines at the molecular level. And this version . . . notice the filaments? They’re capable of repair at the molecular level. These nanites flow in the bloodstream of the Edu as well.”

François’s face was pale. “Does that mean . . . do we all have these things in us?”

Yotto’s gaze flicked to François, then back to the holographic image. “We need to find out.”

One by one, Yotto tested each of them, his expression growing more intense with each result. And in the results of each test, the same thing appeared—tiny, beetlelike nanites swimming in their bloodstreams.

Marty exchanged a glance with François, their minds racing. “Wait a minute,” Marty said, suddenly remembering something. He pulled out the ankh-shaped weapon that he’d kept with him since the beginning of this crazy adventure. “All of us had one of these, but at the time they were covered in some kind of gold dust. But when we grasped them, the gold . . . it leached into our hands.”

Yotto’s eyes flickered with recognition, and he nodded slowly. “As such things are wont to happen . . .”

“What does that mean?” Marty asked, his voice tense. “Are we infected with something? Is that why François no longer looks his age? Why the fatigue that I’d been dealing with vanished soon after all of this started?”

Yotto nodded again, his expression grave. “These nanites are keyed to the biology of the infected. They attempt to repair anything they find needing repair. They use your DNA as a specification for the way things should be.”

François gasped, the realization hitting him hard. “So . . . in effect, it means any illness we have, any injury . . . these things are automatically fixing them?”

“Within reason,” Yotto clarified. “Even the nanites can be overwhelmed. They can’t regrow lost limbs, for example, but they can correct what’s wrong within the limits of their programming.”

Marty felt a chill run down his spine. The implications were staggering. They were carrying something inside them, something that could change everything about who they were, how they lived. But at what cost?

“What about the blood chemistry?” François asked, pointing to the graphs next to the image of one of his nanites.

“It’s not vastly different from other humans’, albeit it seems all of your metabolic by-products are significantly affected.”

“In what way?” François took on a curious expression as he rubbed at his chin.

Yotto looked up at the hologram and said, “Your microbial metabolites are elevated compared to all of the humans we’ve profiled. Your readings show a much higher level of various volatile organic compounds, which to me is an indicator of a gut microbiome that’s different in some way—maybe more efficient than most. It would certainly explain the noticeable change in scent.” The Gray swiped at the console, shutting it down, and said, “It’s getting late. My assistant will take you to a reserved chamber where you can sleep.”

Marty nodded, his mind still reeling from the revelation that they’d been infected with some kind of micro-robots. As they followed Yotto’s assistant out of the lab, the weight of everything at once settled heavily on his shoulders. The report from the weasel about the Neshili, the seeming destruction outside the magma tunnel, the nanites in their blood . . . it set his mind racing.

And as they made their way up a set of stairs inside the engineering wing, Marty knew that when they woke up, nothing would be resolved.

The complications were accelerating, and he knew that all of this was far from over.


Marty woke with a start, the cold, sterile light of the chamber pressing down on him as he tried to shake off the remnants of a restless sleep. Shush shook himself and then sat upright on Marty’s chest. The others stirred on cots around Marty, still groggy from the revelations of the previous day. He was just about to stand when the door slid open, revealing Yotto, his smooth gray skin practically vibrating with anxiety. For anyone else, it would have been hard to read the emotion on the alien’s minimal facial expressions, but Marty had now spent enough time with these aliens to pick up on the subtle nuances—the slight furrow in Yotto’s brow, the way his eyes darted from side to side.

“Something’s wrong,” Marty muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but Surjan, already alert, caught the note of concern in his voice.

Yotto didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “A team of Herders has been spotted outside the glacier walls,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “One of the Farmers is transmitting back what he sees.”

Marty’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what the Herders were capable of, at least historically, but the way Yotto spoke . . . there was definitely worry in the alien’s tone of voice.

Yotto moved quickly to a console embedded in the wall, his long fingers flying over the controls. A hologram flickered to life above the console, but at first, all it showed was static, a murky haze that made it impossible to discern any details.

“The signal doesn’t penetrate the lava tube well,” Yotto explained, his tone tight with frustration. Marty saw the tension in his movements, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he adjusted the controls. “But just . . . give it a moment.”

The static began to clear, the image sharpening into focus. What Marty saw next made his blood run cold.

Pouring out from the mouth of the lava tube were hundreds of humans, their bodies bloodied and bruised, shackled and yoked neck to neck and ankle to ankle. The sight of them, so broken and defeated, sent a wave of nausea crashing through him. And leading them, several Grays marched with an eerie calm, their expressions devoid of emotion as they herded the string of humans into the main square.

He didn’t think they were all Neshili. They were just too many.

Their large number itself was a reason to be horrified.

Marty’s eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any familiar faces. And then he saw her—Surjan’s former queen, Dawa, her regal demeanor barely intact beneath the layers of dirt and blood that marred her face. Her nose was bloodied, but her eyes . . . her eyes still burned with defiance.

Surjan’s reaction was immediate. He surged forward, his face a mask of fury. “Dawa . . . those bastards,” he snarled, his voice thick with rage. Marty reached out, grabbing his arm before he could do something reckless.

“Sharrum!” François pointed out the warrior, now a beaten, bloody mess, but still standing upright.

“Arnun! Telipi! Yaru! Zidna!” Lowanna cried.

Muwat!

“Wait,” Marty urged them. “We need a plan. We can’t just run in there blindly.”

But it was too late. The team, spurred on by the sight of their captured friends, was already rushing toward the exit, their footsteps echoing off the cold metal floor as they raced down the corridors.

By the time they reached the main square, the scene was even worse than Marty had imagined. The humans were being loaded into wheeled cages, their shackles clinking ominously as they were dragged toward a distant cavern, pulled by other humans who looked equally beaten and terrified. The air was thick with the stench of blood and despair, and the cries of the prisoners echoed in Marty’s ears like a haunting chorus.

Marty spotted Dawa being shoved roughly into one of the cages with the rest. Her chin was held high, but it was clear she was barely holding on. The sight of her, so strong yet so vulnerable, seemed to ignite something deep within him.

Yotto frantically pulled at Surjan and hissed, “Get back so you aren’t seen.”

Marty fell back out of sight and nodded to the rest. The last thing they needed was to get captured along with the rest. He did a quick head count and grumbled with frustration. Kareem was missing, again.

He whispered to François, “Where’s Kareem?”

The Frenchman frowned and shook his head. “I’m not sure. He was with us in the sleeping quarters.”

Marty stepped farther back into the tunnels, the wailing of the prisoners tearing him to pieces.

They needed to do something.


Kareem melded with the shadows as he surveilled the outskirts of the main chamber, watching what the alien scum was doing to the Neshili.

Under normal circumstances, he didn’t have a care at all for any of these natives, but given a choice between the gray-skinned freaks and the natives, he was Team Neshili all the way.

Even with his ankh at the ready and a deep-seated desire to split these creatures in half, Kareem knew there were too many of them for him to make any kind of obvious offensive move.

On the far end of the chamber, Kareem spotted a lone sentry.

Without hesitation, Kareem padded forward and with a practiced swipe of his razor-sharp ankh, he parted the alien’s head from its body and dragged them both deeper into the shadows.

He had no idea who the alien was nor did he care what faction it belonged to. The Herders wanted to eat humans, and the Farmers didn’t stop them. None of them deserved to breathe any longer.

François’s disapproving expression bloomed in his mind’s eye, and Kareem shook his head and muttered, “I’ll beg forgiveness later, because sometimes you can’t ask permission.”

The shadows extended outward in this area and Kareem managed to get close to some of the cages. Not close enough to help those inside, but enough to listen to the Grays standing nearby.

The aliens’ eyes were cold and calculating as they watched their brethren make quick work of the former islanders. One of them, taller and more imposing than the rest, stepped forward, his voice carrying a chilling calm.

“We’ve reclaimed our prize,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the captured humans. “These will be the foundation of our thousand-year herd. Carefully selected, genetically screened, and consumed in an order that will maintain maximum genetic diversity over time. This should prove much more effective than the misguided Farmers’ attempts.”

Kareem’s blood boiled. The Herders weren’t just imprisoning these people—they were treating them like livestock, like a resource to be bred and exploited.

This was no different from back in Egypt. The aliens were going to farm humans for their own good, like cattle. And when the human was of a certain age or size, they’d be eaten.

Eaten, their bones gnawed and tossed into a pit. Kareem clenched his fists and knew that there wasn’t much he could do on his own.

Slowly, he began retracing his steps, replaying in his mind what he’d heard.

Kareem passed the smoking remnants of the alien he’d killed. Just like the Sethians back in Egypt . . . they turned to goo upon death.

François wouldn’t give him grief this time about the one death . . . not when he told him what he’d overheard about the aliens’ plans for them.



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