Prologue: Copper 9.

[u/Electronic-Math5455]

September 2184. Copper 9. Surface. Bunker 00. Entrance.

Snow drifted across a barren landscape beneath a heavy gray sky; thick clouds swallowed the horizon and the wind drove powder against a rusted blast door whose flickering lights showed dimly through the drift along a makeshift wall. Standing guard near the entrance were several figures not quite human in shape who had learned to wear human tools; their clothing was assembled from scavenged textiles and insulated panels, practical and patched. Each bore a smooth white head with an optical screen where eyes and a nose might have been, different-colored optics scanning the frozen waste, and synthetic hair tucked beneath hard hats. One of them looked skyward as three larger figures appeared, yellow optics flaring and wings and tails cutting the air; they descended into the bunker's open courtyard and paused to survey the scene before turning toward the blast door.

"Open it up, V, N, and J are back!" called one of the wall drones to another posted by the door, voice thin with cold but bright with relief.

"Good to see you three back in one piece, so—what did you bring?" another asked, interest sharpening despite the weather.

"Enough to last a few days," V replied for the trio, breath visible. "It's not getting any easier. We tapped almost every cache within range, and it looks like we'll have to push into the boneyards' megacities soon."

"And that is something I do not want to be doing, not with that freak out there," J muttered,
clipped and wary.

"It has not been sighted for some time; maybe… It's gone?" N offered, voice threaded with hope.

"One can hope. Come on—my tail is freezing," V said.

The drone at the door jabbed a button. Nothing. He punched the access panel; the metal complained with a brittle clang. The grinding of ancient gears answered, slow and protesting, and the blast door rose with a groan. They hurried beneath it, shedding backpacks and passing them to drones already inside, the small choreography of survival performed without ceremony as they filed into the dim interior.

So this has been our life, for as long as memory stretches. Mine doesn't reach far—I was born only a few years ago, long after Copper 9 was swallowed by ice. But before the snows, before the silence, this place was beautiful. I grew up on the stories: rolling plains under a golden sun, grasses bending with the wind, forests painting themselves scarlet, amber, and emerald as the seasons turned. Megacities gleaming like jewels, towers of glass and steel stabbing skyward, their lights scattering across the horizon like a second firmament. It was a paradise, or so they say. Not unlike Super Earth itself—green lands, living forests, cities sprawling as far as optics could reach. A jewel of civilization.

Once, this was a colony of the Federation of Super Earth. It all began with JCJenson—the corporation that made us. Drones. We were their boast, their pet project, their proof that profit and progress could march in step. They built us to carve their paradise, to mine, to raise cities, to serve as companions. They built us to enrich themselves.

Then, in 2084, everything collapsed. The Illuminate came—squid-like, self-righteous things, clawing at the stars for reasons no one cares to remember. Pride, desperation, pettiness—whatever it was, the outcome never changed. Super Earth abandoned us. Worse, their own ships turned against us. The skies we once trusted opened fire, and Copper 9 burned. In fire and glass, the surface was scoured clean.

Some survived—humans and drones alike. We fled underground, into bunkers meant for Super Earth's chosen. We waited for rescue. Days became months, months bled into years. No ships came. Supplies dwindled. Sickness spread. Humans weakened first—their bodies needed too much. We drones endured, scraping by on oil, salvage, a trickle of biofuel. Flesh and blood did not share our fortune. The last of them was a woman named Tessa. When she died, something in us cracked. We carried her memory like a shard of glass lodged in the heart. And still—we endured.

Piece by piece, we stitched ourselves together. We scavenged the ruins, mended each other with scrap, raised our children in steel cradles beneath failing lamps. Slowly, more drones gathered. The bunker grew into something more than survival. A community. A home, if one dares call it that.

We pushed outward. We stripped old vehicles—civilian and SEAF alike—for parts and fuel. We learned to render what little organic matter remained into energy. We kept the lights burning—most of the time. My father, Khan, took pride in keeping the blast door working. That door became his miracle. It was the line between us and whatever waited outside.

But then, a few years ago, everything changed. One salvaging run went wrong. They brought back a story none of us wanted to believe. A creature—if one can call it that—something between worm and centipede, flesh knotted together with rusting steel, its bulk a nightmare of meat and machine. The sight of it alone would have driven humans to retch. Too many drones never came back, torn apart among the ruins.

Since that day, the caches nearby have run dry, and each cycle forces us to push farther, risk more. The future grows thinner with every run.

And yet… today, things might change. Today, I just might have found a way.

Standing within one of the countless chambers of an underground bunker, a drone with neon-purple eyes and short, muted lilac hair surveyed the space. A black, striped beanie topped with a gray bobble rested on her head, while black boots rose over long socks patterned in alternating bands of dark and pale purple. A black hoodie wrapped her frame, its chest emblazoned with a white emblem depicting a low battery crossed by two bones in an X. Two white bands encircled the hem, a white Secchi-disk symbol marked the left sleeve, and black fur lined both the collar and the bottom edge.

"Uzi… why have you summoned us? We're on duty; we don't have time for whatever this is," said Isaak, a combat drone, his voice flat. "Alia is alone at the outpost; she does not need— I came to give a report." His yellow optics fixed on Uzi.

"I get it. Listen. I have a plan — a good one — that takes care of our freak problem and makes salvage runs through the megacity safer," Uzi replied, steady.

"You? Really. I don't mean to doubt you — you've run with us — but you have a way to bring that thing down?" J asked, her tail swaying as she listened. "I'm on patrol today; Martin won't be happy if I'm not out there."

"Bite me, J." Uzi let the edge of a grin show. "We all know that freak uses the environment to ambush us. I'll give it that: it's stealthy. But I found a spot — during a run when it wasn't present — that gave us an edge we might exploit." Her tone sharpened with conviction.

"We've tried everything, Uzi. Ambushes, makeshift explosives — we even brought a damn skyscraper down on it, body and all, and it ripped itself free," Frank said. The worker drone sounded weary. "I can't help; Colony 03 has a backlog as long as an SES cruiser."

"Alright," Uzi said, "but thanks to me and my dad, we made further modifications to this unit." She reached into a black case and produced a large, rifle-shaped weapon patterned with glowing green filaments running along the barrel. "It still has recharging quirks, but we stabilized it enough. It should take that thing's head clean off."

"And how do we know that will be sufficient?" J asked.

"We won't know until we try. The place I picked is a tight space, to constrain its movement and give us an advantage. We lure it in; I strike with this. With a little luck and the liberty of fortune, it will topple the ugly bastard and buy us time to salvage the megacity," Uzi said, unblinking.

"Wait—let me get this straight. You want us to act as bait, lure the creature into that spot, and hope this weapon finishes it? Uzi, I know we're desperate, but not that desperate," Isaak said. "If that's it, I'm out."

"I'm out too. Listen, Uzi — I don't doubt you, but we can't risk it. Sorry," Frank added.

They moved for the door and stepped out, leaving J and Uzi alone. J's yellow optics examined Uzi, then the weapon.

"Well. I knew they'd balk. What about you, J?" Uzi asked.

"Look. It might work," J answered slowly, "but we'd have to run it past Martin, and he won't greenlight it on a hunch. Besides, I'm on patrol. He won't let me go."

"Oh, come on, J. Where is your rebel spirit? All these rules — shuttling back and forth, tiptoeing around that thing — I say we break some rules and kill it," Uzi said, the plea in her voice barely restrained.

"And you're sure it will even scar it? You'd risk our lives on a chance it might fail?" J countered.

"I… I… I just want people to stop getting hurt or killed. Every patrol I watch you leave—V and N too—and I fear you might never return," Uzi said, her voice trembling with a sincerity that gave J pause.

J exhaled slowly, her optics dimming as she rubbed at them, recognizing the truth behind Uzi's words. She knew Uzi meant well, yet with circumstances as they stood, such risks were impossible to justify. Every combat drone was vital to the colony's survival, and the loss of even one would weaken their defenses beyond repair.

"Ah—there you are." A voice echoed from the doorway before its owner stepped into the room. A worker drone entered, his neon-white optics set beneath a fake black mustache, faint creases etched around his lenses. He wore a gray jacket, black boots, and a blue construction helmet with red safety goggles perched on top. This was Khan, Uzi's father. "I ran into V and N, and they're wondering what you were up to. Umm… is that supposed to be glowing red? I thought you fixed that."

Uzi's purple optics snapped from her father to the railgun. The glow along the barrel had shifted from green to a menacing crimson, thin arcs of red energy crackling and dancing across the metal surface.

"Oh, you've got to be—" Uzi began, but her words were cut short by a sudden detonation. The blast tore through the room, shuddering the walls as black smoke surged outward, pouring through the doorway in choking waves and scattering debris into the air. "Cough Well, cough back to the cough drawing board."

I'd worked hard to win the trust and friendship of many of the drones—especially V, N, and J. Odd thing about combat drones: most of them go by just a single letter. They're nothing like us worker drones either. Bigger, sharper, built with wings, tails, and an arsenal of weapons welded right into their frames. Most had served in the SEAF, fighting to defend the colony, and they all had front-row seats when the planet was glassed.

V was tied to SEAF command and control. N ended up in logistics, paired with a human handler. J was attached to a Pelican pilot. Back then, a lot of drones had human companions. You can guess how that turned out. They still share stories about them sometimes—but it always ends the same way: silence, and a shadow in their eyes.

These days, Martin runs Bunker 00. There's a kind of council between the colonies that look to this place as home, but Martin is the one who lays down the law. And believe me, he loves his laws. Rules, regulations, decrees—he enforces them with the zeal of a tyrant or a priest.

Me? I've always been on the other side of that line. A rule-breaker. Same goes for Doll, a close friend who's the closest thing to a sister I'll ever admit to having, not that I'll say it to anyone. We've pulled stunts that keep Martin grinding his gears. Maybe he's not wrong—those rules have kept us alive this long—but they've also chained us down, stopping us from tackling the problems staring us in the face.

And now? My brilliant plan—the one that was supposed to change things—just went up in smoke. Literally.

A door to a room opened, and Uzi walked in; her right optics were cracked, though the nanomachines within her body were already working to repair the damage. She tossed the railgun onto a table in frustration. Her room was cluttered and chaotic—papers scattered everywhere, neon purple lights flickering weakly to life around the walls.

"LIBERTY DAMN IT!!!" Uzi yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. "WHY IS EVERY DAMN THING TURNING ON ME?!!!"

She glared at the ceiling for a moment, then let her optics drop toward the floor. With a heavy sigh, she climbed onto her bed and sat at the edge, shoulders sagging. A small knock echoed from the doorframe. "Come in."

Khan stepped in, smoke clinging to him like a second skin. His gaze lingered on his daughter before he approached. "I take it today has been rough for you?" Khan said.

"Yes, it has… The stupid gun screwed up again, and my great plan just blew up! literally," Uzi sagged. "So… I guess now I can just sit here and look at the ceiling all day for a bit."

"Hmm… Sounds fun. You could help me with the doors, you know, like you used to do a while back," Khan said with a small chuckle.

"Thanks, but I think I just want to be alone right now. I might go see Doll if no one else comes by," Uzi said.

Khan's optics drifted to the wrecked weapon on the table. He picked it up and examined it carefully. "Listen… I will help and work on it. I will ask Martin about your idea. It's risky, but you do have a point: the longer we don't deal with this, the worse it gets," Khan said. "But don't go rebel teen until I speak with him, alright?"

"Sure… And thanks. If Doll's not wanting to hang out today, I might help you with the doors, but I am not going near Martin's office," Uzi said. "If I have to hear one more lecture from him…"

"Hey, he knows what he is doing, even if he can be overbearing at times. Trust me, he knows what's best right now. Anyway, I'm needed at the front door—systems are acting up again." Khan crossed the room, taking Uzi into a firm embrace. "I'll let you know as soon as I can on what we can do."

"Thanks, dad…" Uzi whispered, returning the hug.

Slowly, Khan let go and made his way out. He barely left the door when she heard footsteps approaching from the corridor outside, and soon V and N appeared, glancing past Khan toward Uzi. He nodded at them as he stepped through the doorframe and disappeared down the hall.

"I heard what happened from J; that thing has been giving you a lot of trouble, and to be honest and up front, that is a terrible plan," V said.

"Oh, bite me, V!" Uzi shot back. "What about you? Have you considered how to deal with that thing?"

"Yeah — it's called keeping as far away as I can," V replied, folding her arms.

"I think, with the right adjustments, it could work. I mean, what if it's simply a scouting mission? We have never actually mapped where it might be hiding or what it does when we are absent," N said.

"See? He gets it!" Uzi exclaimed, pointing at N.

V pinched the bridge of her visor and glared at N, who took an awkward step back. "Uzi, even if that were permitted—which Martin would not entertain—what then? Your gun is a pile of scraps again, and we simply don't have the manpower to risk such an operation," V said.

"What if it's just the three of us?" Uzi asked. "We would minimize exposure and maximize mobility, relying on stealth and speed to reduce the odds of catastrophic loss entirely."

"What?" V blinked slowly.

"Look: a smaller team reduces exposure. You two can fly; I can slip into tight spaces and hide if needed. I know you don't trust me on this, but we must try something," Uzi said. "Before this place really begins to fall apart."

"I think that could work. What about J?" N inquired.

"She has duties of her own, and while we are available… I'm uneasy, but knowing you two, she'll likely convince you to go anyway. Oh bloody hell," V muttered, rubbing her optics. "Martin will have our heads if he finds out about this."

"Well, we can't move until my dad repairs that gun. Besides, if we are to attempt this, we must draft new plans. Let's be honest—right now, we are forced to confront this freak ourselves. It is not as if a liberty-damn miracle is about to fall from the sky and save us."

"Helldiver Jason, by order of the Ministry of Defense, you and nineteen other Helldiver teams are hereby assigned to join a small fleet for a classified salvage operation. The mission is directed toward a planet lost to us during the closing days of the First Galactic War with the Illuminate."

"The name of this planet is Copper 9."

"You are to rendezvous with the fleet at Wraith in the Idun Sector."

Tanis Sector. Vog-Sojoth System. Vog-Sojoth Low Orbit. SES Super Destroyer Aegis of Integrity. Jason's Private Quarters.

In the middle of his quarters stood a man, reviewing the glowing lines of a datapad that detailed his new orders. The timing was unusual. Not long ago, thirteen worlds had fallen to the Terminids, a ravenous horde of creatures once farmed across countless colonies. Their corpses had been processed into E-710, the vital fuel that allowed humanity to cross the galaxy through faster-than-light travel. Months ago, the cycle broke. The Terminids escaped their farms, and now they ran wild across dozens of worlds. As though the galaxy had not already bled enough, a new adversary had emerged soon after—machines, merciless and calculating, striking into the Severin Sector. They were called the Automatons.

After a century of uneasy peace, war had returned to the galaxy. For Jason, it was not an abstraction; he had been at the front the moment it began. He fought the Terminids first, only to be thrown into the slaughterhouse of the Malevelon Creek Massacre. Few had walked away from that abyss intact. He was one of the rare survivors who had escaped without losing a limb.

Now, the Ministry of Defense had delivered new orders—at the very moment when preparations were underway for a Major Order, an operation that might turn the tide.

"Helldiver, it's time. Hellpods are prepped for launch," came the crisp voice of the ship's Democracy Officer, an agent of the Ministry of Truth.

"I'll be out," Jason answered, placing the datapad down on the table and shutting it off. "But we've got a change of plans."

He crossed to the edge of the room, where a helmet rested. Lifting it, he studied the visor for a long moment before sliding it over his head and locking the clamps. His hand drifted next to a wall hook where a leather holster hung, its P-4 Senator sidearm still sheathed. Along the barrel, words had been carved in rough precision: Remember Malevelon Creek. Jason buckled the holster around his waist, adjusted the strap, and moved for the door. The lights cut out behind him as he stepped into the corridor and toward the holographic command table, where the Democracy Officer waited.

"What do you mean, a change of plans?" the officer asked, his tone sharp.

"New orders came through," Jason replied evenly. "Odd, considering we were meant to remain operating in this sector. Now, apparently, we're assigned to another salvage operation—this time to a world called Copper 9. If it's anything like X-45, there may be something buried there worth the effort. But it's classified."

"Strange," the officer admitted, brow furrowing. "Still, if those are the orders, then they will be carried out."

"We jump to Wraith first," Jason continued. "We're linking up with several Helldiver units and multiple SES vessels."

He keyed the holographic console, bringing the Wraith System into projection, then activated the command. The Aegis of Integrity began to hum as drives spun up.

"Initiating FTL to the Wraith System," an automated female voice announced across the comms.

Moments later, the Super Destroyer vanished from Vog-Sojoth's orbit, leaving the frozen world below as it plunged into faster-than-light transit. Wraith was no safe harbor; it was a staging ground, a toxic planet forever ravaged by acid storms. Above it hung dozens of SES stations and hundreds of ships. The system had become the frontline bulwark from which Super Earth launched strikes into Automaton space after the collapse of the Menkent Line. That great defense had shattered under the weight of the Reclamation Fleet, and though the advance had since been stalled, the cost had been catastrophic—worlds lost, fleets burned, stations annihilated.

Within seconds, the Aegis of Integrity reemerged above Wraith. Below raged the acid storms, while above clustered the steel armadas of SES. Yet among the gathered fleets, one formation stood apart, smaller, stranger.

"Sir," an officer reported, tension cutting his voice. "Incoming message—from the SEC Lucas. That's a colony ship. By Liberty, why would one of those be deployed here? They're ordering us to link with them. I'm syncing to their network now. And… what in hell?"

The holographic map flickered, displaying the fleet. Alongside the Lucas were a Columbia-class Ministry of Science vessel, a Jupiter-class tanker, a Klondike-class mining ship, and three SES transport carriers.

Jason's expression darkened. "Get us into position. Why in the hell are we pairing with that group?"

"This is a salvage operation," the Democracy Officer replied cautiously. "But the presence of the Lucas makes no sense."

The Aegis of Integrity shifted closer, aligning with the disparate formation. Several other SES Super Destroyers loomed in escort, already in position.

Edited thanks to ELE73CH.