THE IMPOSSIBLE DISPLACEMENT
NATO MARITIME COMMAND (MARCOM)
Northwood Headquarters, United Kingdom
14:00 GMT
The room smelled of stale coffee and expensive wool uniforms. It was a windowless, soundproofed theater usually reserved for tracking Russian submarines in the North Atlantic. Today, the screens showed a different ocean.
The holographic display projected a new sector of Omega. The planet's axial rotation had finally exposed the "Far Side" to the GDI satellite network. It wasn't land. It was water. A vast, churning, violet-black ocean that covered forty percent of the planetary surface.
Seated around the table were not politicians, but engineers and admirals—the men who understood the brutal math of displacement and buoyancy.
Vice Admiral William Bowers, Commander of US Naval Sea Systems Command (NAVSEA), tapped a stylus against the table. He looked tired. "Let's review the request from Gibraltar. General Dubois wants 'Naval Power Projection' in Sector 5. Specifically, he wants over-the-horizon bombardment capability and littoral patrol assets."
Rear Admiral Hiroshi Sato of the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force shook his head, adjusting his glasses. "It is a fantasy, Admiral. We have solved the problem of lifting tanks. A T-14 weighs 50 tons. An Arleigh Burke-class destroyer weighs 9,000 tons. We cannot fit a destroyer inside a starship. The physics of lift-to-weight ratio make it impossible."
"We don't fly the ship," a third voice cut in. It was Dr. Elias Vane, a civilian naval architect from BAE Systems. "We fly the kit."
Bowers looked at Vane. "Elaborate."
Vane stood up, keying a new schematic onto the main display. "The Korean 'Geobukseon' and the American 'Atlas' have proven they can move heavy freight. We don't send a finished hull. We send a Modular Assembly Complex. A drydock. We flatten the design of a Zumwalt or a Type-45 destroyer into pre-fabricated, weld-ready blocks. Engines, keel, magazines, command deck. We fly them up in pieces. We assemble them on the water."
"An IKEA warship," Sato muttered.
"Precisely," Vane said, unbothered. "But to do that, we don't just need a landing zone. We need a shipyard. We need a secure, deep-water harbor with a stable geological shelf. We need to build a factory before we can build a ship."
Bowers stared at the map of the alien ocean. The waves recorded by the sensors were fifty feet high. The water chemistry was high in sulfuric acid.
"We're talking about building an industrial shipyard on a hostile planet, in an acid ocean, while potentially under fire."
"If we don't," Vane countered, "then that ocean belongs to the enemy. And if the land-based Leviathans are any indication... I'd hate to see what lives in their deep water."
Bowers exhaled slowly. "Greenlight the scouting mission. Find me a harbor. Project 'Poseidon' is a go."
THE SILENT SCROLLS
GDI 'ALPHA-OMEGA' SCIF
Rock of Gibraltar
16:30 GST
The silence in the room was heavy. The "Architects of Flesh" intel—the satchel Harris had retrieved from the mountain—lay spread out on the table.
It was disappointing.
General McCaffrey picked up a scroll made of cured, translucent skin. The geometric writing shifted slightly under the fluorescent lights, disturbing to the eye.
"Cryptology has been working on this for forty-eight hours," McCaffrey said, his voice thick with frustration. "And?"
Sir Malcolm Hayes, standing by the coffee service, didn't turn around. "And it's poetry, General. Bad poetry."
"It's not actionable," McCaffrey complained, tossing the scroll back. "Metaphors. ' The Sky That Eats,' 'The Loom of Bone,' 'The Unmaking.' There are no coordinates. No troop numbers. No technical schematics of their weapons. The Shogun didn't have the plans to the Death Star, Malcolm. He had a book of sad songs."
Hayes turned, sipping his espresso. "You are looking at it like a soldier, General. You want a map. Look at it like a historian."
Hayes walked to the table, tracing a finger over the alien script.
"The text speaks of a 'Great Flight.' A 'Shattering of the Homeworld.' It describes the Elves, the Orcs, the Shadow-Clan... not as conquerors, but as survivors."
McCaffrey frowned. "Refugees?"
"Exactly. Armed, dangerous, desperate refugees," Hayes said. "They didn't invade Earth because they wanted our resources. They invaded because they were pushed. They are running from the Architects."
"So we're fighting the victims," McCaffrey summarized grimly.
"We are fighting the first wave," Hayes corrected. "This isn't a two-sided war, General. It's a three-sided meat grinder.
Side A: The Human Alliance.
Side B: The Exile Concordat (The Fantasy races).
Side C: The Architects (The Futuristic faction)."
Hayes looked up, his eyes cold. "The Exiles are fighting us for territory. They are fighting Side C for survival. And Side C... the Architects... they seem to be fighting simply to... harvest."
"Harvest what?"
"The 'Prime Gene'," Hayes said. "Whatever that is. We have stumbled into a civil war that spans galaxies, General. And right now, we are the ants getting trampled while the elephants fight."
THE GREY BEACH
OMEGA, SECTOR 5 (COASTAL REGION)
09:00 Local Time
The Primary Recon Force (PRF) was not a large unit. It was a six-man team from the British Special Boat Service (SBS), inserted via a high-altitude HALO drop three hours prior.
Lieutenant Commander "Viper" Sterling lay prone on a ridge of jagged, grey volcanic rock. His optical camouflage cloak blended perfectly with the stone. He adjusted the magnification on his spotter scope.
Below him lay the target: "Inlet Alpha."
It was a natural deep-water harbor, sheltered by high cliffs. The water wasn't blue. It was a deep, opaque violet, churning with a heavy, oily viscosity. The "sand" on the beach was black, pulverized glass.
"Control, this is Viper," Sterling whispered into his throat mic. "On station. Examining the site."
"Copy, Viper," the voice of GDI Mission Control crackled in his earpiece. "What's the ground composition?"
Sterling signaled to his Sergeant, who crawled forward with a geological penetrator device. He jammed it into the rock.
"Ground is basaltic," Sterling reported. "Solid rock foundation. Ideal for heavy load-bearing structures. No liquefaction risk."
"And the water?"
Sterling looked at the violet waves crashing against the black rocks. The spray hissed as it hit the shore.
"pH levels indicate mild acidity," Sterling read from his sensor suite. "Nothing our hull coatings can't handle, but it'll eat untreated steel in a week. But Control... it's quiet. Too quiet."
He swept the scope across the coastline. There were no birds. No crabs. No movement. Just the endless, rhythmic crash of the heavy ocean.
"No hostiles," Sterling confirmed. "Thermal is flat. Motion is flat. It looks like this sector is uninhabited."
"Copy that, Viper. The site is green-lit. Mark the LZ. The heavy lifters are inbound."
Sterling popped a specialized IR-flare. It burned with a cold, invisible light, painting a massive target on the black beach.
"LZ marked. Send the builders."
THE DROP
HIGH ORBIT
The US-SSTV 'Atlas' (Callsign: Hercules) and the Russian 'Burlak' (Callsign: Volga) broke formation from the orbital fleet. They began their descent, heat shields glowing cherry-red as they hit the upper atmosphere.
Inside the Hercules, the payloadmaster checked the restraints. This wasn't a tank. It was a massive, rectangular module, three stories tall and weighing eighty tons.
Module A-1: Automated Assembly Gantry & Foundry Core.
"Gravity check," the pilot announced. "Braking thrusters in three... two... one."
The massive ships screamed down from the sky, their engines roaring like captured hurricanes. They didn't land on the beach—the sand was too unstable for ships of that mass. They hovered over the basalt shelf Sterling had marked.
The rear ramps lowered.
Cables the thickness of a man's leg unspooled.
"Package is away."
The massive foundry module lowered slowly, swaying in the downdraft. It touched the black rock with a seismic THUD. Automatic anchoring spikes fired from the base of the module, driving ten feet into the basalt, locking the structure to the planet.
From the Russian ship, a second module—Module P-1: Power Generation & Life Support—was lowered next to it.
As soon as the cables detached, the modules woke up.
There were no humans inside yet. Just automation.
Hydraulic seals hissed. The two modules extended connecting corridors, locking together with a metallic CLANG.
A small army of Boston Dynamics-style construction drones—ruggedized, four-legged robots—poured out of the hatches. They began welding, securing the perimeter, and deploying solar/thermal collectors.
"Control, this is Viper," Sterling watched from the ridge. "Touchdown confirmed. Modules are interlinked. The 'Foundry' is active."
"Copy, Viper. The Koreans are launching the second wave now. Fifty engineers and the first keel-blocks for the Zumwalt-class prototype. Hold the perimeter."
Sterling watched the automated factory come to life on the alien shore. It was ugly, blocky, and industrial.
It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
It was a toehold.
But as he watched, he noticed something.
Down by the water's edge, where the violet waves lapped at the black sand.
Something had washed up.
It wasn't seaweed. It was metal.
Sterling zoomed in.
It was a piece of debris. Twisted, scorched, white-and-chrome metal.
It looked like... a piece of a ship. But not a human ship. And not a wooden elven ship.
It was sleek. Futuristic.
And it had a hole blasted through it that looked suspiciously like it came from a large-caliber kinetic weapon.
"Control," Sterling said, his voice tightening. "I'm seeing debris on the shoreline. Technological. It looks... like the 'Architect' tech from the Amazon."
"Understood, Viper. Secure it if you can. But maintain overwatch."
Sterling lowered his scope.
The ocean wasn't empty.
Someone had fought a naval battle here. Recently.
And whoever they were... they had big guns.
The "Foundry" hummed behind him, oblivious to the fact that it might have just been built next to a graveyard.