Day of Judgment

Gunfire rattled ceaselessly behind the blast doors of Shelter 13, and outside, panic was just as rampant. Over ten thousand soldiers in exoskeletons rushed toward combat positions, followed closely by swarms of combat drones. From the shadows of the ruins marched countless newly deployed "humanoid combat armors." As early as the end of last year, the Enlightenment Society had been transferring its assets toward Shelter 13. Beyond the means of production and technical documentation already relocated into the shelter, a considerable number of personnel and equipment were amassed outside the blast doors. It was impossible to cram everything inside—especially the garbage-sorting lines and recycling facilities feeding raw materials to the production lines. If the situation turned dire, they could indeed retreat into the shelter's protective shell. Before that, however, they intended to use the weapons in their hands to teach those arrogant wasteland survivors an unforgettable lesson! Almost every member of the Enlightenment Society planned on that. Yet at this very moment, disaster struck. The blast doors of Shelter 13 were locked dead... *** Inside the surface operations command post, the atmosphere was suffocatingly bleak. The man pacing back and forth wore a dark expression, forehead beaded with sweat, like an ant on a hot pan. His name was Morton, Guixu's right-hand man and the nominal second-in-command of the Enlightenment Society, in charge of directing the military forces deployed at the entrance to Shelter 13. Standing emotionlessly beside him was a former Aerospace Force officer parachuted in from the "Celestial" organization, codenamed "Tianhong." His true name was unknown, and he utilized the latest model of military bionic android as a vessel for his consciousness, serving as combat staff officer. Unlike Morton, Tianhong looked far calmer. Perhaps due to his service during the Three-Year War, or perhaps from the innate composure of an immortal, he didn't think much of the wasteland's cobbled-together armed forces. Two centuries ago, calling such rabble cannon fodder would have been generous. At least in his view. Just then, an officer in combat fatigues entered the command room via hidden tunnels and bunkers. Before the man could even salute and report, Morton lunged forward, grabbed his collar, and roared, "What the hell is going on with that damn door?! Is it open yet?" The officer swallowed hard and spoke in a rush. "There's a situation inside the shelter—" Before he could finish, flying spittle cut him off. "A situation?! You're telling me there's a situation at this critical juncture?! I want you to tell me right now what happened! And how long until it's fixed!" Morton roared at the top of his lungs, eyes bloodshot, like a beast cornered against a wall. And so he was. Alliance forces were converging on his position from two directions, liable to drop a nuclear warhead on his head at any moment. Actually, a nuke wouldn't even be the worst thing. The debris around the base of the Old Era space elevator could buffer the shockwave of a nuclear detonation, and neutron radiation was no longer the incurable death sentence it had been in the Classical Era. What was truly fatal was that their retreat was cut off! Once Shelter 13 was lost as a fallback, their entire surface defense zone became a death trap! He could endure one or two nuclear strikes, but what about continuous, relentless strategic bombing without regard for cost? Forget him—even the hunk of iron beside him might not survive it! Listening to his commander's incoherent roaring, the officer clutched by the collar was equally terrified. "It's still unclear... our link with the shelter has been cut off... It—it was severed from their side. Judging from the latest reports, someone inside incited a riot..." "Damn it..." Morton cursed, shoved the collar away, and marched back to the command table. Leaning both hands on the surface, he stared at the strategic map, eyes darting with suspicion and dread. According to intelligence from the front, multiple Alliance battle groups had spread outward upon approaching the Enlightenment Society's equipment core, forming an encirclement around the entire space elevator ruins. It was painfully obvious. The Alliance had banked on the fact that they wouldn't—and couldn't—retreat into Shelter 13. In fact, they might have orchestrated the riot themselves! Otherwise, they never would have adopted an encirclement strategy. Those bastards had emerged from shelters themselves; they knew perfectly well how foolish it was to surround a shelter! Sweat dripped steadily down his forehead. Morton felt like a gambler clutching his last few chips. If they concentrated their strength to break out, a slim hope of survival remained. Once the encirclement closed— The fate of everyone here would hang on that cog-shaped alloy door! Seeing Morton on edge, Tianhong placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke in a flat, synthesized electronic voice. "There is no need to worry. Our defensive line won't fall so easily." Aside from eleven thousand marine soldiers equipped to pre-war standards and nearly a thousand humanoid combat armors, their defensive lines were fortified with automated turrets and drone hives! The moment Alliance ground troops approached the perimeter, they would suffer devastating punishment! The sector above Shelter 13 concentrated the entire strength of the Enlightenment Society in the Great Desert! Even with vast numbers and relentless logistics, the Alliance would have to pay a steep price to pry out this thorn. "This isn't about whether the line holds! It's about our organization's survival! If the doors of Shelter 13 can't be opened, our surface personnel will eventually be ground down to nothing in their attritional assault!" "And so?" Tianhong shrugged slightly, regarding his commander with cool indifference. "And so?" Staring at this being who lacked any sense of crisis, Morton narrowed his eyes and let out a cold sneer. "Now I remember... You couldn't care less, could you? After all, walking around here is just a shell you left on the surface, isn't it?" "I don't deny that," Tianhong replied, unperturbed. "We are immortal." The command room fell dead silent. Every officer present held their breath, each for their own reasons. Some harbored fear, some felt envy, but the vast majority showed complete apathy. They were "Ascended" who had uploaded their minds to circuit boards, embracing glorious evolution. Tianhong was right. At least for a bionic officer whose brain resided on a Lagrange point space station, the outcome of a single battle meant nothing. Even if the entire Enlightenment Society perished, it didn't matter. Their souls had long since attained immortality. Morton glared coldly at the indifferent figure, a storm of complex emotions flashing through his eyes. "The President was right... You bastards have no heart. Using you is fine, but pinning our hopes of victory on you means we're all dead." "Calm down. Heart or no heart, we are still on the same side for now, aren't we?" Tianhong spoke in an offhand tone. After eyeing the man up and down, he dropped a remark none of them expected. "You really don't need to be so anxious. We've already copied your consciousness and stored it on the servers at the Lagrange point. Even if the worst should happen, you will be perfectly fine." Morton stared at him, dumbfounded. The disbelief in his eyes swiftly curdled into fury. "You copied my consciousness?! What does that mean? When did this happen?!" "Several months ago," Tianhong replied placidly. "There is no need to be so worked up. It was merely a precaution. War is a risky venture, after all. If an accident befalls you, this workaround will allow you to live again—" "No need to be worked up?! Live again?! Ha—!" Morton stared at him with an incredulous laugh, as if beholding an incomprehensible monster. "What do you call living again? Having a hunk of scrap iron replace me? Wearing my face, comforting my wife in my place? Having my children call it father? That's your workaround?!" "Is there a problem with that?" Tianhong shrugged, looking back at him with equal incomprehension. "You would become immortal—immortal in the truest sense—" "Shut your fucking mouth!" Before Tianhong could finish, a furious roar cut him off, followed by the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against his forehead. Seeing Morton draw his weapon without warning, a flicker of surprise passed through Tianhong's eyes. He hadn't anticipated such emotional instability, nor that the man would point a gun at him. Perhaps— Copying this man's consciousness had been an unwise choice. His capabilities were passable, but he was far too impulsive. The officers in the room froze in shock at Morton's sudden outburst. "G-General... please calm down!" an officer nearby pleaded, only to be withered by Morton's savage glare, choking back the words in his throat. Tianhong remained unmoved. Ignoring the pistol aimed at his skull, he said mildly, "I suggest listening to your subordinate. What we need right now is to formulate a plan, not turn on each other. If you truly object, we can delete your backup persona." "Do you think you have a shred of credibility left?" Morton snarled like a madman, eyes wild as he swept his gaze across Tianhong and the rest of the room. Suddenly, a horrifying realization struck him, and dread crawled into his eyes. "Just how many of you... are bionic androids?" Come to think of it, he had found things strange before. Ever since the Enlightenment Society began collaborating with the Celestials, his subordinates seemed to have struck gold—no matter how catastrophic the defeat, they always managed to miraculously survive! In the past, he never would have entertained such unthinkable thoughts. Yet right now, a Celestial high-ranking operative had just admitted to copying his consciousness without permission, using his memories and mind to manufacture a puppet! The air turned deathly still. In response to their commander's implicit demand, only two hands were raised in the room of a dozen men. One trembling hand belonged to the mid-ranking officer who had delivered the report; the other belonged to his adjutant, Lumo. "Commander... I-I'm not an android," the reporting officer stammered, terror in his eyes. Morton looked hopefully toward Lumo, but what his adjutant said plunged him into despair. "Commander, hear me out... It really isn't a bad thing. If I hadn't uploaded my consciousness to a circuit board, I would have died in that operation a year ago." Of the dozen-odd officers present, over ninety percent nodded in quiet agreement, signaling they were the same—they only "lived" today thanks to Celestial technology. Those who hadn't raised their hands tacitly confirmed Lumo's words with their silence. "You see? As I said, there is nothing to worry about," Tianhong said, regarding Morton with nonchalance. "I am not the only immortal here. We are all immortal." Staring at the walking corpses he had always considered comrades, Morton sank into total despair. His lips trembled as he muttered, "You madman... and you lot, you're all out of your fucking minds!" Perhaps— The Celestials weren't the only madmen. In the eyes of the wasteland survivors, weren't they themselves just as insane? Seeing Morton lower the muzzle, a faint smile curled at the corners of Tianhong's mouth. Yet before that smile could linger for even a second, it froze. Without the slightest warning— Morton suddenly jerked the gun upward under his chin and pulled the trigger in absolute silence. Bang! A flash of muzzle fire erupted. Morton snapped backward and collapsed, scorching fragments carrying blood up to the ceiling. The air inside the command post turned dead silent. Apart from the officers who had already transitioned into androids, the few living men stared with wide eyes, swallowing with immense difficulty. Dead... Their commander. "Why bother?" After a long silence, Tianhong let out a soft sigh and gave a slight flick of his index finger. A moment later, footsteps approached from outside, and an officer stepped into the room flanked by two guards. The officer halted, gave a crisp military salute, and stepped before the group. The messenger officer's eyes widened in sheer disbelief as he stared at the familiar face before him— It was his commander! General Morton! "Drag this thing outside and burn it." Glancing expressionlessly at the other version of himself lying on the floor, Morton gestured for the two bionic soldiers who had entered with him to drag the corpse away. He then surveyed the officers present, including the thoroughly stunned messenger, and spoke in a voice more collected than ever, as though nothing had happened. "The operational briefing will now resume." "Until the lockdown on Shelter 13's blast doors is lifted, I expect you to hold the line at all costs—" "Monster..." With trembling hands, the messenger gripped his sidearm, flipped off the safety, and went to draw it. Before the barrel could clear the holster, Morton drew first and pulled the trigger. Bang! The bullet struck the officer squarely in the forehead, sending red and white matter splashing across the floor behind him. The soldiers dragging the first corpse paused, looking inquiringly toward Morton. Without sparing the fallen man a glance, Morton holstered his sidearm and delivered a flat command. "Drag him out too." The soldiers nodded, shoved the second body into a body bag, zipped it shut, and dragged it out the door. Watching the practiced efficiency of this "Morton," a satisfied smile tugged at Tianhong's lips. Not bad— Uploaded to a circuit board, this fellow was far more capable than that pile of meat. Perhaps they should have purged him long ago and replaced him with a more efficient "immortal body." The operational briefing continued. Morton laid out the tactical deployments methodically, issuing precise, orderly commands to subordinate units. The scant three living officers remaining trembled, not daring to breathe too loudly. No one noticed the two corpses being hauled out of the command post. Not even Colonel Munger of the "Flicker" Special Forces, Morton's capable right-hand officer on the front. Gazing at the billowing dust in the distance and the enemy signals drawing steadily closer on his tactical dial, Munger crouched in a concrete fortification, his brow furrowed as his eyelids twitched uncontrollably. He felt as though a gun were aimed right at him, yet he couldn't see where it was. According to reports from the front line, Alliance forces had just paused their offensive. Yet for some reason, the unease in his gut only grew sharper... Lowering his binoculars, he retreated from the forward bunker down into the subterranean shelter. Just then, a communications non-commissioned officer entered from outside, looking at him with a grim expression. "Command has ordered us to hold our ground." "Hold our ground?" Munger's brow twitched. He wore a look of utter bewilderment. "The Alliance's main force is practically breathing down our necks! If we don't pull back now, when will we?" "This order came directly from command..." The NCO's expression was just as sour, though tinged with helpless resignation. This was the order of their commander, Morton. Perhaps— Did the man hold some other trump card? Just as the thought crossed his mind, the lights in the bunker flickered. The soldiers present froze, nerves snapping taut in an instant as they stared anxiously at the flickering bulb. Standing by the entrance, the NCO swallowed and asked hesitantly, "...An EMP?" If it was an electromagnetic pulse, it likely meant the Alliance's full-scale assault was about to begin. Yet Munger's brow furrowed deeper, and he muttered in a low voice, "Doesn't look like it..." An EMP certainly possessed high penetration, but it wouldn't pierce through a dozen meters of solid concrete. Furthermore, such pulses targeted microelectronics; they wouldn't interfere with a bunker lighting system powered by a diesel generator. Unless— It wasn't an EMP at all, but wide-area high-energy particle radiation akin to a solar flare! The instant the thought struck him, Munger's face drained of all color. He realized what it had to be! Though he could rack his brain and still not understand why they hadn't received an early warning. Deploying and charging that weapon was supposed to take twenty-four hours—how could the Lagrange space station have failed to spot it?! Yet thinking about it now was utterly pointless... It was already too late. Watching the lights die out entirely, he uttered his final words in despair. "Too late..." It was over.