Silas POV
There are too many of them.
I ran out of E-packs a while ago. Ranged combat is no longer an option. If I'm going to survive this, I have to stay close.
With every swing of my beam saber, enemy machines come apart in molten arcs of light. Armor splits, internal structure ruptures, reactors destabilize. Some of them go critical, detonating in violent bursts as I move through the chaos.
I raise my new Gundam shield instinctively.
The shield's built-in Phase Shift Armor flares as lasers and heat wash over it, absorbing the punishment that would otherwise spike my internal temperature. That was the entire point of the design. Let the shield take the energy. Let my frame stay cool.
Venting heat takes time. Twenty-five minutes of vulnerability if it happens at the wrong moment.
That is unacceptable.
The downside is obvious. With the shield deployed, MA Mode is off the table. The transformation system simply won't accommodate it.
A trade-off.
One I'm willing to make.
I'm still fast on two legs. Thrusters give me enough mobility to reposition, dodge, and strike before most pilots can react.
A warning prickles at the back of my mind.
I don't think.
I move.
Gaia surges upward as laser fire slices through the space where my back was a heartbeat earlier. The near miss would have caught me clean if I'd hesitated even a fraction of a second.
I don't know how I sensed it.
Not consciously.
Even after all this time, it still feels strange.
Being here.
Being like this.
Newtype.
Coordinator.
I didn't notice at first. Not right away. But the signs were there. Faster reactions. Sharper perception. A strange clarity when everything should have been overwhelming.
I see angles others miss. Feel timing before it happens.
And sometimes… more than that.
From time to time, emotions bleed through. Fear. Rage. Desperation. The echoes of other people fighting and dying around me brush against my thoughts whether I want them to or not.
It affects my mood. My focus.
I've learned to lock it down when it matters.
Right now, there's no room for distraction.
I tighten my grip on the beam saber and step back into the fire.
—-///—
Port City
While the battle raged across the continent, one pirate band moved differently from the rest.
Several of their DropShips descended into the port city like the others, but there was no indiscriminate pillaging. No scattered raids. No random destruction.
They had a destination.
The moment their boots hit the ground, they drove straight toward a single location within the city. Heavy equipment followed close behind—industrial drills, cutting rigs, and shaped charges far beyond what ordinary pirates would bother hauling.
For hours, the city shook.
High-yield explosives tore into ferrocrete and bedrock. Cutting beams burned through buried layers of old construction. Dust and smoke filled the air as they carved steadily downward, uncaring of the fighting raging elsewhere.
They knew exactly where they were digging.
Eventually, the ground gave way.
They found it.
Not far from the dig site, Agent June stood among the local pirate coalition under her cover identity—Zefa—watching the operation unfold. To the pirates, this was the prize she had promised them. Riches. Lost technology. Glory enough to justify the risk of this invasion.
They didn't know the truth.
Zefa did.
She and a handful of her "crew" weren't pirates at all. They were operatives—carefully placed, well-trained, and loyal to a power far removed from petty raiding. This planet was never about loot.
It was about what lay beneath it.
An old Star League–era black site, buried deep and forgotten by history.
Black Site Artemis.
Records of the facility were fragmentary, deliberately obscured, but ComStar's archives had hinted at its existence. Enough to justify the risk. Enough to warrant expendable forces and plausible deniability.
Resistance had been heavier than expected. The appearance of the unknown machine—Gaia—had complicated matters.
But it hadn't stopped them.
The outer layers of the facility were already breached. Reinforced blast doors were being exposed, their surfaces scorched and cracked by cutting charges. Sensors confirmed what Zefa already knew.
They were close.
Very close.
And soon, they would reach what they had come for.
—///—-
Governor Building – Central Settlement
Governors' POV
The governor's chamber was quiet except for the steady hum of data feeds scrolling across the holo-table.
Casualty reports.
Sector collapses.
Enemy movements.
Despite several pirate units being wiped out—entire lances destroyed in last stands across the continent—the numbers were still against them. Too much metal. Too many ships. Too many machines being poured onto their world.
They were still barely holding on.
Security feeds flickered across the room, showing pirate DropShips landing, unloading, advancing with unnerving coordination.
Governor Ricard broke the silence.
Ricard: So it comes down to this. I never thought we would see a day like this.
The older man's voice carried the weight of seventy-one years. Age had finally begun to claim him—slower movements, deeper lines in his face—but his eyes were still sharp.
Beside him stood the other surviving governor.
Amelia.
Barely thirty, disciplined far beyond her years, posture rigid as she studied the data.
Amelia: AFF. Indeed. Our ancestors thought splitting from the tribe was the right choice. Bringing everything we had to this world. Starting over. Keeping the clan strong.
Ricard turned to her, his expression darkening.
Ricard: People abandoned that thinking a long time ago. Only some of you youngsters in the last few generations even bother with the old ways.
Amelia met his gaze without flinching.
Amelia: AFF indeed. Because someone had to. Your generation let us grow weak when we could have grown strong.
Ricard exhaled slowly.
Ricard: It doesn't matter. We lost the ability to manufacture technology at that level generations ago. We became scavengers—patching together what we could. That is why we locked our assets away in the deep bunkers. And why we came here in the first place.
He gestured toward the data display.
Ricard: Our ancestors had records. Star League experimental programs. A black site. Artemis.
Amelia's jaw tightened.
Ricard: It isn't weakness to admit we lost what made us strong. All we can do now is cling to what remains.
Amelia made a face that translated clearly: Are you serious?
Amelia: AFF. Then we should reactivate what assets we still have. The other bunkers still hold warriors—true warriors—kept in reserve for exactly this situation, Quiaff.
Ricard sighed, rubbing his temples.
Ricard: Despite Theodore's best efforts, there is a reason we never deployed them. Only a handful of us still follow the old ways. Yes, our trueborn warriors are still on ice. They agreed to that conditional bond.
He paused.
Ricard: And all we have left are a few Star League Defense Force machines. No more than four lances.
Amelia already knew what was coming.
Ricard: You and I both know why they were never used. We cannot replace them. Cannot replicate them. Once they are gone, they are gone forever. That is why we relied on lesser machines.
Amelia looked away, frustration plain on her face. Not denial—anger. Anger at what her people had become.
After a moment, she spoke again.
Amelia: Did the blood test on the mercenary come back with anything?
Ricard stiffened. He knew exactly who she meant.
Silas.
The man who appeared out of nowhere.
No DropShip.
No JumpShip signature.
Ricard: It did. The results were… unexpected.
He turned fully toward her.
Ricard: The test confirms he is trueborn. A warrior by blood. And beyond that—he is one of us.
Silence fell between them.
Amelia: …So the project was a success?
Ricard shook his head slowly.
Ricard: I don't know. You know as well as I do—the facility collapsed years ago. But the man and his machine came out of that bunker he now claims as his home. Our people investigated. The deeper entrance is still buried.
He frowned.
Ricard: Whether he dug himself out, or something else happened… we don't know. But it does suggest the project worked.
Ricard twirled his mustache thoughtfully.
Amelia's eyes burned with conviction.
Amelia: Then Project Newtype Warrior succeeded. Even if we left an AI in charge. In our greatest crisis, everything our ancestors gambled on has come to fruition.
She turned to face him fully.
Amelia: This is a sign. A clear one. We can return to the clan. To name and deed.
The old governor did not answer immediately.
But he did not deny it either.
END