Page 8 of Sy (Alien Berserkers of Izaea #2)

8

A shley wiped the sweat from her brow as she supervised the final adjustments to the generators. It had been a long day already, and it was only early afternoon. The sun was at its highest with dust particles dancing in the rays and a hot breeze carrying the smell of heated metal and machinery oil.

Movement at the edge of the site caught her attention, and she looked up to see Sy emerge from between two storage containers.

Finally shows up , she thought, oddly relieved to see him. Something about his rigid posture and the way his gaze swept the area suggested he was on edge.

She reached into her work bag, pulling out the carefully wrapped package she’d been carrying since lunch. The mess hall’s protein bars weren’t exactly gourmet, but she’d noticed Sy hadn’t made it to lunch. So she’d saved hers, along with an extra portion of the dried fruit that came with it.

“Hey,” she called out, walking over to meet him and holding out the wrapped package. “You missed lunch.”

His expression softened as he accepted the offering. The wrapping crinkled as he carefully opened it, the sweet scent of preserved fruit mixing with the industrial smells around them.

He looked up at her sharply, his jaw tightening. “This is your ration.”

“I had extra,” she lied, keeping her voice casual. “The kitchen staff were generous today.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, pinning her with a hard gaze. “I know exactly what the portions look like. This is yours.”

Heat burned her cheeks, and she shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I had a large breakfast.”

“You shouldn’t give up your food for me.” He thrust the package back toward her. “Take it back.”

She stiffened and shook her head. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions about my food rations.”

He stepped closer, using his height to loom over her. The movement brought him near enough that she caught his scent, wild and electric, like ozone before a storm. Her breath caught as awareness arced between them, the busy construction site fading into the background.

“Your well-being is part of my responsibility,” he growled, his voice dropping lower.

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Those strange, compelling eyes held hers with an intensity that made her mouth go dry. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she realized how close he was.

“I’m not your responsibility,” she managed, but the words came out breathlessly. She should step back, should maintain a professional distance, but her feet were rooted to the spot. The warmth radiating from his body enveloped her, and she swayed forward instead of away.

His nostrils flared, and something flickered across his expression, something hungry and barely contained. Leaning down, he brought his face closer to hers. His breath fanned warm against her cheek, sending shivers down her spine.

Is he going to kiss me? Her pulse raced, and she couldn’t catch her breath… couldn’t tear her gaze from his mouth. His lips…

His hand came up, hovering near her face but not quite touching. She felt the heat against her skin, seeing the slight tremor in his fingers as they curled into a fist before dropping back to his side.

The air between them crackled with tension. Her heart hammered against her ribs as he loomed over her, his presence overwhelming her senses. Her skin tingled where his breath ghosted across her cheek, and she found herself swaying toward him, drawn by something primal she couldn’t name.

Then suddenly, the warmth vanished. He jerked back as if burned, putting several feet between them in one fluid motion. The late afternoon air rushed into the space where he’d been, cold against her heated skin. She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Regret flashed across his features, followed by something raw and vulnerable that made her chest ache. He refused to meet her eyes, instead looking out over the site.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.” His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

The words hit her like a physical blow. She opened her mouth to tell him he hadn’t scared her, that what she’d felt was about as far from fear as possible, but her voice failed her. Her throat felt too tight, her tongue too clumsy to form the words that might bridge this sudden chasm between them.

The package of food still dangled from his hand. He looked down at it and frowned, as if he’d forgotten it was there. He set it carefully on a nearby crate, his movements deliberate and controlled as if he was afraid to make any sudden gestures.

“You didn’t scare me,” she said softly, surprised by the husky quality of her own voice. She cleared her throat, trying again.

His eyes snapped to her face, searching. The intensity of his gaze made her breath catch again, but she held steady, willing him to see the truth in her expression. She wasn’t afraid, hadn’t been afraid of him since those first moments after landing, if she was honest with herself.

No, what she felt now was something far more dangerous than fear. Something that made her pulse quicken and her skin flush warm despite the cooling evening air. Something that made her want to close this careful distance between them, professional boundaries be damned.

Her throat felt dry as she watched emotions war across his features. His hands clenched at his sides, and she could see the tension thrumming through his powerful frame, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.

“Ashley.” Her name came out as barely more than a growl, rough with something that made heat pool low in her belly. “You should be afraid.”

But she wasn’t. God help her, she wasn’t afraid at all.

Her heart thundered as she stepped closer and pressed her palm against his chest. The heat of his skin seeped through the thin material of his shirt, and she felt the rapid beat of his heart.

“Why should I be afraid?” She stepped closer, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “Are you planning to hurt me?”

His eyes tracked her with predatory focus, and a thrill shot through her. There was something about the way he watched her, like she was prey he desperately wanted to devour. The thought should have terrified her. Instead, heat bloomed across her skin, and her breath caught in her throat.

The world beyond them faded away, the construction site, the workers, all became background noise. All that existed was this moment, this electric connection between them. She felt the slight tremor in his muscles beneath her palm, sensed the careful way he held himself in check.

“No.” His voice came out rough, almost guttural. “I would never hurt you.” The words vibrated through his chest under her hand. “But I am dangerous, Ashley.”

His eyes bore into hers, dark with an intensity that made her knees weak. “If you knew what I really was… what I want from you…”

He broke off with a sharp shake of his head, frustration etched into every line of his face. His jaw clenched, muscles working beneath his skin as he visibly struggled with whatever he’d been about to reveal.

Her fingers curled against his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Something about his barely contained control, about the way he looked at her with equal parts hunger and restraint, drew her in like a moth to a flame.

The moment shattered as he moved, reaching out to pull her hand away from his chest. But instead of releasing her completely, his large hand enveloped hers, holding it with surprising gentleness.

“Someone’s been sneaking out at night,” he said, an abrupt change of subject that made her bite back a smile.

She frowned. “Why is that such a big deal? I mean, I know it’s against protocol, but?—”

“There are things about this place,” he cut her off, his grip tightening on her hand. A shadow passed over his features, but it was gone almost before she registered it. “Things that need to stay hidden. Secrets that could get people killed if the wrong people found out.”

The rough pad of his thumb brushed across her knuckles. Her skin tingled at the contact, and she had to force herself to focus on his words rather than the sensation.

“What kind of secrets?” she asked, keeping her voice low despite their relative privacy.

Before he could answer, a deep vibration shuddered through the ground beneath her feet. The sensation crawled up her legs, making her bones ache. She whirled around to find the source.

One of the Hell-Vs swayed slightly, its stabilizing struts groaning. Emergency lights flickered across their control panels, casting intermittent red shadows across the ground.

She pulled her hand from Sy’s grip, already reaching for her tablet. Her fingers flew across the surface, pulling up the unit’s readings. But the numbers didn’t make sense. The sensors showed normal background levels despite the tremors she felt through her boots.

“That’s not right,” she muttered, expanding the diagnostic display. The Hell-Vs shouldn’t be responding to nonexistent seismic activity. Their fail-safes were designed to prevent exactly this kind of malfunction. The discrepancy between her readings and physical reality made her skin prickle with unease. Equipment malfunctions she could handle, but this felt different, wrong in a way she couldn’t work out.

She strode toward the nearest unit. The vibrations grew stronger as she approached, making her teeth chatter. The Hell-V’s massive frame shuddered, its frame pulsing with an uneven rhythm that set her nerves on edge.

“What’s going on?” Sy asked, following her.

“This looks like seismic activity, but why aren’t the sensors picking it up?”

It was more than that. The Hell-V’s emergency shutdown sequence should have engaged automatically at the first sign of ground instability. Instead, the machine continued its erratic operation, lights strobing across its control panel in patterns that didn’t match any fault code she recognized.

“ Michelle! ” she bellowed, her eyes still on the console as she initiated a manual diagnostic.

“ On it! ”

She nodded, even though Michelle probably couldn’t see her, the conversation with Sy gone from her mind as she focused on the more immediate task of stopping several million credits worth of equipment from tearing itself apart and killing everyone in the vicinity.

He moved silently through the forest on a path he’d followed so often he could walk it in his sleep. The afternoon sun filtered through the branches above, creating shifting patterns of light on the forest floor. His heightened senses picked up the subtle changes in the air… the way the breeze carried different scents, the slight variations in temperature between shade and patches of sunlight.

A flash of movement caught his eye—at first, just one krevasta scuttling through the underbrush followed by another and another. Their eight-legged forms moved with unnatural speed, abandoning their usual hunting grounds.

His muscles tensed, immediately dropping into a defensive stance. Where krevasta fled, danger followed. These creatures possessed senses that surpassed even Izaean capabilities, detecting threats long before they manifested. He’d learned this lesson years ago, watching countless krevasta colonies respond to threats his own enhanced senses couldn’t detect until much later.

The legion infection had changed these creatures, making them more sensitive to approaching dangers. He’d spent years studying their behavior, watching how the symbiont altered their patterns and responses. What might take decades to manifest in an Izaean would show up in krevasta within months.

Their shortened lifespans made them perfect subjects for understanding the legion’s influence. He’d witnessed entire generations succumb to the infection, their behavior shifting dramatically as the symbiont took hold. Some became more aggressive, others more erratic, but all showed heightened survival instincts.

A larger krevasta darted past his feet, its carapace gleaming with the telltale iridescence of legion infection. The creature’s movements were jerky, desperate—a clear sign that whatever threat approached was significant. He’d observed enough infected specimens to know this wasn’t typical behavior, even for their enhanced state.

He pressed his back against a thick tree trunk, scanning the forest with all his senses. The krevasta’s mass exodus had to mean something was coming—something that even their legion-enhanced awareness deemed too dangerous to face.

He continued through the forest despite the krevasta’s warning, his path taking him deeper into territory few dared to venture.

At a seemingly unremarkable pile of large rocks, the remnants of an ancient mountain ridge in the area, he pressed his palm against a specific pattern of moss. A hidden panel slid aside, revealing a biometric scanner. The security system recognized him immediately.

The entrance sealed behind him as he descended into the facility, emergency lighting activating with each step. The contrast between the primitive forest above and the advanced technology below always struck him. Sterile white walls replaced dirt and stone, the air carrying the sharp scent of recycled and filtered air as he triggered the door release.

For a moment, he paused in the doorway, looking around him.

His laboratory sprawled before him. Holographic displays streamed data from his various experiments while specimen containers lined the shelves on the wall opposite like a small army, each holding carefully preserved krevasta at different stages of legion infection. The creatures’ carapaces showed the telltale signs of the symbiotic mutation he’d been tracking for the past thirty years.

He approached his main workstation, his fingers dancing across the holographic interface as he pulled up the latest readings. The Izaean on the planet would never understand the scope of his work here. They saw the legion symbiont as a curse, a mutation to be controlled or eliminated. But he saw the bigger picture.

His research had revealed a pattern. The parasitic DNA required multiple generations to fully integrate with a host species. The krevasta, with their simple nervous systems, succumbed quickly. But they were nothing more than biological automatons for the legion to control. More complex organisms, like the Izaean, required time and generations of subtle genetic changes before the legion could truly take hold.

But the most fascinating part was the origin of the infection. His research had led him to a planet halfway across the galaxy, where ancient records spoke of a similar outbreak. In the records he’d been able to recover, those that weren’t corrupted beyond repair anyway, the genetic markers had matched perfectly—evidence that it wasn’t a random mutation but something far more deliberate.

Moving between his workstations, he checked the status of various experiments. The lab hummed with the sound of processing computers and environmental systems… sounds that were more familiar to him than the voices of his supposed peers at the garrison. Here, surrounded by the research of countless iterations, he didn’t have to maintain the facade of being one of them. Here, he could pursue the truth without their limited understanding of science.

He settled down at the analysis station, preparing the genetic scanner with practiced efficiency. He’d always used his own DNA as the baseline, both to ensure he hadn’t been infected and because his was the only DNA he knew was pre-legion infection. The scanner hummed to life, its blue light washing over his skin as it collected cellular data.

While the system processed his results, he examined the latest batch of krevasta tissue samples. Their cellular structure showed advanced stages of legion integration, far more aggressive than anything he’d documented in Izaean subjects. The parasitic DNA had completely rewritten their genetic code within a few generations.

The scanner chimed, displaying his results on the holographic interface. Negative for legion infection. He sighed in relief. After three decades of research, he couldn’t afford contamination now. One positive result would destroy everything he’d worked for and expose his presence here among the Izaean.

His mind drifted as he logged his test results. The Lathar had taken the early work on genetic manipulation that had created the Vorrtan and used it. They’d altered themselves to survive on dozens of worlds, adapting their bodies to toxic atmospheres, extreme gravities, and hostile environments. Each modification was a triumph of science over nature.

But they hadn’t been careful, and they’d paid the price for it.

He pulled up the ancient genetic maps, tracing the branching paths of Latharian clans through the galaxy. There, in the historical data, lay the first hints of what would become the legion infection. A containment failure in an orbital facility had exposed an entire clan to unknown genetic material.

They hadn’t realized at the time, but the modified DNA had spliced seamlessly into their genetic code, creating changes so subtle they went unnoticed for generations.

The infected clan had returned to Lathar Prime, carrying the legion’s dormant DNA within them. Through marriages and births, the parasitic genes spread through the population, lying dormant until specific environmental triggers activated them. By the time the first cases of Blood Rage appeared, it was already too late. The infection had become part of their genetic heritage.

He stared at the genetic data scrolling across his holographic display, each strand of DNA telling a story of gradual mutation and adaptation. The legion infection’s progression through Latharian genetics fascinated him—how it had remained completely undetected for generations until the first cases of Blood Rage emerged.

His fingers traced the complex patterns in the historical data. The initial infection had been subtle, integrating so perfectly with Latharian DNA that it appeared natural. The modified genes had passed from parent to child, spreading through the population like ripples in still water. No one had suspected anything was wrong until the first warriors began losing control.

He pulled up his comparative analysis, showing the progression of genetic changes across multiple generations. The early signs had been dismissed as natural variations: slightly enhanced strength, quicker reflexes, heightened aggression responses. Nothing that would raise alarm in a warrior culture. By the time the Blood Rage manifested, the infection had become an integral part of the Latharian genetic makeup.

The first documented case of Blood Rage had occurred in a young warrior during a routine training exercise. The incident had been attributed to combat stress, the warrior’s loss of control seen as a personal failure rather than a symptom of something far more insidious. Similar cases followed, each dismissed or explained away until the pattern became impossible to ignore.

He accessed the secured files from the original genetic screening programs. The Latharian scientists had eventually identified the modified genes, but by then, the infection had spread too far to contain. Their solution had been to identify affected individuals early, segregating them into specialized warrior units. The Izaean berserkers were born from this crisis, their entire culture shaped by the need to control what they didn’t fully understand.

The data showed how the infection had evolved alongside its hosts. Each generation of Latharian children born with the modified genes showed slightly different expressions of the trait. Some developed Blood Rage early. Others remained dormant carriers their entire lives. The unpredictability had made it impossible to completely isolate affected bloodlines.

His own research had revealed something the original scientists had missed—the infection wasn’t just surviving in its hosts. It was actively adapting. Each new generation showed subtle improvements in how the parasitic DNA integrated with the host genome. The Blood Rage wasn’t a flaw in the system. It was the infection testing different expressions of its genetic modifications.

He moved to the clone maintenance section of his laboratory, the familiar hum of life support systems growing louder. The row of tanks stretched along the wall, each containing an exact replica of his current form. Bluish nutrient fluid cast an ethereal glow across the sterile surfaces as he approached the nearest active tank.

His fingers moved across the control panel with the ease of long practice, initiating the standard maintenance protocols. The computer began its analysis of the fluid composition, checking pH levels, nutrient ratios, and cellular stability. He’d perfected this formula over decades of trial and error… each failure had taught him something valuable about maintaining clone viability long term.

“Running degradation analysis,” the computer announced.

Sitting back, he watched the readings scroll across the screen. In the early days maintaining even a single clone had seemed an insurmountable challenge, but now he had the process down to an art form.

“No cellular degradation detected in current batch. All parameters within acceptable ranges.”

His lips compressed as he nodded. Good news, but he knew it was only temporary. Each successful transfer bought him more time, but eventually the cloning process would fail. Genetic material could only be copied so many times before errors began creeping in, subtle at first but ultimately fatal.

He glanced at the pile of bones near the door. However, genetic breakdown wasn’t the only danger here. Number fourteen had had a particularly unpleasant ending. Injured out in the forest, he’d miscalculated the time he’d needed to get back here with the blood loss he’d suffered, only just making it inside the door before he’d collapsed. By the time he’d emerged from the tank, his previous form had already decomposed beyond the matter reclamator’s ability to process. He’d left the bones as a reminder of the cost of carelessness.

Twenty-seven transfers so far, and each one felt like borrowing time he might not be able to repay. This body was holding up well, but he could feel the first subtle signs of cellular stress that preceded each necessary transfer. The computer might not detect degradation yet, but he knew his limits intimately by now.

He moved to the far end of the laboratory where the cryo-chamber stood, its surface frosted with centuries of accumulated ice. He’d seriously considered using it again before Dr. Godwin’s arrival. A few hundred years in suspension would have given the legion infection time to reveal more of its patterns, and he’d used this strategy before to reduce the frequency of necessary transfers.

But then the human doctor had actually communicated with a legion symbiont. The one within Banic. The implications were staggering. He’d spent centuries studying the infection’s progression through generations of Latharian hosts, watching it slowly perfect its integration into their genetic code. The Blood Rage had always been its tell, the point where the changes became too extensive to hide.

He’d never imagined it could achieve sentience, though. The doctor’s breakthrough had revealed aspects of the legion he hadn’t uncovered in all his years of research. She approached the problem from angles he hadn’t considered, asked questions he’d never thought to ask. Her fresh perspective might be exactly what he needed to understand the full scope of what he was dealing with.

His fingers traced over the surface of the chamber as he considered his options, staring blankly at the half-formed clone inside. Perhaps it was time to stop working alone. She’d proven herself to be both capable and insightful, and the thought of finally sharing his research with someone who understood its importance was very tempting.

A shrill alarm pierced the air of the laboratory, its urgent tone cutting through his thoughts.

“Warning. Seismic activity detected,” the lab computer announced. “Magnitude seven point three earthquake approaching. Impact in six minutes.”

Draanth. Abandoning the cryo-chamber, he rushed to the main control console. His fingers flew across the holographic interface, pulling up detailed sensor readings. The approaching tremor’s epicenter aligned perfectly with the construction site—too perfectly to be natural.

“Initiate emergency lockdown protocol alpha,” he commanded, watching as blast doors began sealing off critical sections of the facility. “Secure all specimen containers and activate stasis fields on active experiments and clone tanks.”

The computer complied instantly, force fields shimming into existence around delicate equipment. The specimen and clone tanks locked down automatically, their contents protected by layers of redundant safety systems. He’d designed these protocols centuries ago, knowing that eventually something would threaten his research.

“Transfer all current data to secure storage,” he ordered, already moving toward the emergency exit. “Encrypt everything using protocol seven.”

“Data transfer initiated. Warning: Complete lockdown will prevent access for seventy-two hours once activated.”

He grabbed a small emergency pack from beneath his workstation—another lesson learned from centuries of close calls. “Understood. Execute full lockdown on my mark.”

The facility hummed as systems powered down, the specimens and clones were secured in stasis, and backup power was engaged. Decades of irreplaceable research hung in the balance, protected only by ancient technology and his own paranoid planning.

“Three minutes until seismic impact,” the computer announced.

“Execute lockdown now.” The command barely left his lips before the final blast doors began closing. Emergency lighting cast everything in harsh shadows as the main power grid shut down.

He sprinted through the closing barriers, each section sealing behind him. The entrance tunnel stretched ahead, emergency strips guiding his way toward the surface exit.

He had to get back to the garrison. Now…