Callan’s POV
“Warning: Power levels at 92% capacity. Recommend reducing output to conserve energy.”
SERA’s mechanical monotone grated against my already frayed nerves. I slammed Valkyrie harder into the next jump, feeling the strain through every nerve ending where my body connected to the machine.
“Override conservation protocols,” I growled, muscles burning against the neural harness. “And shut up about it.”
“Override accepted. Be advised: continued operation at current levels will result in reactor strain. Estimated time to mandatory cooldown: seventeen minutes.”
Seventeen minutes. The base was at least fifteen minutes away at standard speed. I’d have to push harder, redline the systems if necessary. The last thing I needed was for Valkyrie to lock into mandatory cooldown with me and an injured civilian stranded in hostile territory. I’d seen what happened to pilots caught outside when their Aegis units shut down. The memory alone made my stomach clench.
I launched Valkyrie across what used to be the Massachusetts countryside. Nothing remained of the world before the fractures, but that was what everyone believed. The landscape below was a wasteland of twisted metal and concrete, nature reclaiming civilization in disturbing ways. A world away from the vibrant green I sometimes still saw behind my eyelids, a place untouched by this decay.
Mutated vegetation with bioluminescent qualities had begun sprouting near dimensional tear points, creating eerie blue-green patches amid the devastation. In the distance, the pulsing crimson glow of an active fracture illuminated the horizon, a perpetual wound in reality that never fully healed.
I landed hard on a ridge, the impact jolting through my spine. A spike of pain flared at the base of my skull, where the neural tether linked in. Six years of piloting, and it never got easier. The neural feedback was always worst during emergency maneuvers.
Sweat trickled down my temple as I tried to maintain focus. Nothing about this mission had gone according to plan. Dome City 8 was supposed to be completely evacuated, confirmed clear of civilians hours ago by command. Yet there he was, standing on that balcony while a Titan-class Nephilim tore through the sector. What kind of person stays behind to watch their own death approach?
The ones who remain are usually those who’ve given up. I’ve seen them before, people hollowed out by this war, who can’t bear another day in the half-life we call survival. Sometimes, in the darkest moments after a mission, I understand that impulse more than I’d admit to the psych evaluators.
But something in his face as the building began to collapse, that moment when he closed his eyes and accepted his fate… I couldn’t let it happen. Not this time.
“Fuck!” I spat as warning lights flashed across my visual display. I halted Valkyrie’s forward momentum, the massive machine trembling around me. The Synaptic Enhanced Response Assistant, or SERA as we called it, was the Resistance Nations military’s idea of a copilot. The AI system monitored everything from battlefield conditions to my own neural patterns, keeping me informed while managing Valkyrie’s complex systems. Most days, I appreciated the extra support. Today, its constant alerts were pushing me over the edge.
“Run vitals scan on civilian passenger.”
“Scanning,” SERA responded. “Last comprehensive scan performed fifty-eight seconds ago. Passenger maintains stable vital signs. Unconscious but no critical injuries detected. Blood pressure: slightly elevated. Heart rate: 76 BPM. Oxygen saturation: 97%. External injuries consist of minor lacerations and contusions. Recommendation: full medical evaluation at earliest opportunity.”
Valkyrie had held the Nephilim’s weight just long enough for me to pull him out. I’m proud of what this machine can do, but the damage she sustained would earn me an earful from maintenance. Not that they’d care about that. They’d be too busy questioning why the perfect poster boy, humanity’s greatest pilot and soldier of a generation, was bringing a random civilian to base.
Our protocols are clear: kill the Nephilim, get back to base. Nowhere does it say “save as many as you can,” because that’s never been part of their nasty plans. We fight monsters while bureaucrats count energy credits and decide who deserves to live.
Some days, I pretend I’ve forgotten what we’re even trying to save.
But I haven’t.
While humans in the domes wait to be saved like lab rats in cages, we in the Resistance Nations bases have advanced defensive systems, reliable power, and actual food that doesn’t come from recycled proteins. But it’s a polished bunker, not freedom.
Another cage with better locks.
Survivors know the base exists. It’s where the five remaining Aegis units are stationed. What they don’t know is its location, kept secret by transporting recruits and workers blindfolded after thorough security screenings to check for tracking devices.
The base’s defensive perimeter includes a force field that destroys any unidentified object that approaches. Not even drones can get close without proper clearance codes. Command keeps it that way on purpose. They can’t have everyone expecting rescue when there’s only room for the chosen few. It’s a bitter truth nobody talks about: we’re not trying to save everyone. Just enough to keep the species going.
I charged Valkyrie through the skeletal remains of old highway systems. Rusted vehicles lay scattered like discarded toys, monuments to a world long gone. I crushed several underfoot, not bothering to navigate around the debris in my haste. Only the occasional flashes from distant fractures brought color to this dead world, brilliant purples and blues that signaled more Nephilim would soon emerge.
Humans were always drawn to colorful things, to neon lights and glow. Just like our ancestors invented fire and then learned it could burn, when the portals first appeared, humanity was drawn to their hypnotic beauty. Scientists and civilians alike approached the shimmering tears in reality, fascinated by the kaleidoscope of colors until the first Nephilim crawled through and humanity once again learned a painful lesson about curiosity. Now, those same beautiful lights signaled only death and destruction.
I stared at the distant silhouette of our base, built into the weathered cliffs that once overlooked Boston Harbor. The massive repurposed naval fortress had become our last line of defense, a final stronghold against the Nephilim threat. Where fishing boats and cruise ships once docked, now anti-Nephilim weapon systems lined the shore, their energy cannons pointed toward the sea where underwater fractures occasionally released aquatic variants of our enemy.
“Pierce to Base,” I said, enabling communications. “Emergency medical required at northwest entrance. Civilian casualty. Repeat, civilian casualty.”
The response was immediate. “Copy that, Pierce. Medical standing by. Command wants to know why you’re bringing in a civilian.”
Of course, they did. I could already hear Commander Rivera’s lecture.
“ETA three minutes,” I replied, ignoring the question entirely. I cut the communication channel before they could ask anything else. Questions would come later. Right now, getting this civilian proper medical attention was all that mattered.
“SERA, initiate disengagement sequence and activate autopilot for the final approach to the base.”
“Acknowledged. Disengagement sequence initiated. Autopilot engaged.”
The neural tether began its phased disconnection from my Synaptic Bridge implant. This was always the worst part. My body tensed as the millions of microscopic filaments withdrew from my nervous system one by one. It felt like thousands of tiny insects crawling beneath my skin, working their way from my spine through my entire body. The specially designed pilot suit I wore helped mitigate some of the pain by delivering localized analgesics to the connection points, but nothing could eliminate the sensation completely.
As the neural link weakened, phantom limb sensations washed over me. For the past several hours, Valkyrie’s massive frame had been an extension of my own body. Now, that connection was being severed, and my mind struggled to reconcile the loss of those extra limbs. I gritted my teeth against the nausea that always accompanied disconnection.
The suit itself was a marvel of engineering, a second skin made of pressure-reactive fibers interwoven with cooling systems and medical monitors. Black with blue energy conduits tracing patterns that mimicked the human nervous system, it was designed to minimize physical trauma during neural integration. The helmet retracted into a collar around my neck, giving me full visibility now that SERA controlled our approach.
“Disengagement at 40%,” SERA announced. “Warning: accelerated disengagement may result in increased neural strain and potential synaptic scarring.”
I knew the risks all too well. Rapid disconnection could cause everything from migraines to seizures, even permanent nerve damage in extreme cases. My medical file already noted early signs of neural degradation from years of piloting. Most Aegis pilots lasted three years before the cumulative damage forced retirement. I’d doubled that, but at a cost. The headaches were getting worse, the tremors in my hands more frequent. The military doctors had a term for it—Synaptic Degradation Syndrome—but we pilots just called it “the shakes.”
Today would only add to the damage, but I couldn’t wait for the standard twenty-minute disconnection protocol. Not with an injured civilian requiring medical attention.
While Valkyrie continued its approach on autopilot, I unfastened the neural harness restraints and turned toward the secondary compartment. The civilian lay strapped to an emergency med-cradle, unconscious but breathing steadily.
I knelt beside him, taking a closer look. His forehead was clammy, covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Gently, I brushed strands of dark hair from his face. Dust and debris covered him, remnants of the collapse, but beneath the grime, I could make out a pattern of freckles scattered across his pale skin. Something about those freckles disarmed me.
Looking for identification, I checked his pockets. Inside his jacket, I found what I was looking for—an ID card from Dome City Eight. Leo Tanner, 22 years old. The sight of the name stirred an odd mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite place. Something about his face triggered a memory, like a ghost I hadn’t seen clearly until now. For a second, I thought I knew him, someone I’d been chasing through every mission, every war zone. But it wasn’t him. Just another stranger caught in humanity’s mistake.
Still, something about Leo Tanner’s face stirred something protective in me. Perhaps it was the vulnerability, or maybe just the rare chance to save someone instead of merely avenging them.
“Disengagement at 75%,” SERA intoned. “Base perimeter security has acknowledged approach. Prepare for arrival.”
I returned to the pilot station, already feeling the physical consequences of neural strain. My vision blurred at the edges, and a familiar throbbing began at the base of my skull, spreading outward. By tonight, the pain would be nearly unbearable, requiring the maximum allowed dose of neural stabilizers just to sleep. By tomorrow morning, my hands would likely tremble too much to hold a cup without spilling. The price of pushing an Aegis unit beyond its limits—and my own.
But looking back at the unconscious young man in my secondary compartment, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
