Intergalactic conquest with an AI

[40 Minutes before the tragedy]

The night clung to the desert outpost like a second skin... thick, suffocating, and unrelenting. The air was a furnace's breath, heavy with the scent of sweat, cheap alcohol, and the ever-present tang of gun oil.

It was a night like any other in this gods-forsaken stretch of sand, where the only reprieve from the sun's tyranny was the brief, beer-soaked respite of darkness.

The mercenaries had claimed their usual spot outside the ramshackle tavern, a crumbling adobe structure that had long since surrendered to the elements.

Inside, the laughter of locals and the occasional off-key strum of a guitar spilled into the streets, but out here, it was just the men, the Captain, his crew, and the weight of the choices that had led them to this moment.

{Another night, another round of lukewarm piss they call beer....} The Captain smirked to himself, tilting his head back to drain the last of his drink. The liquid did little to quench the heat, but it numbed the edges just enough.

He wasn't a man built for garrison duty. No, he thrived in the chaos of firefights, in the split-second dances with death where a single misstep meant a bullet between the eyes.

That was where he felt alive, where the world made sense. But time had a way of sanding down even the sharpest edges. His wife's voice echoed in his mind, the way it had trembled with joy and exhaustion when she'd told him the news.... He was a father now.

The thought should have filled him with warmth. Instead, it settled like a stone in his gut.

What kind of man brings a child into this world when his own hands are stained red?

He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. This mission was a blessing, in its own way. Easy coin, minimal risk. No ambushes, no midnight raids, just babysitting some corporate fat cats who thought the desert needed another pipeline.

It was the kind of job that let a man pretend, if only for a little while, that he wasn't just another blade for hire.

But the dreams… those never faded.

Mercenary King....

The title tasted bitter on his tongue. The last one had died screaming, they said... gutted like a pig in some back-alley. A fitting end for their kind. The Captain had known better than to chase that fantasy, even in his youth. And now? Now it was a ghost he couldn't afford to mourn.

A drunken cackle shattered his thoughts.

"Hey! Captain! What are you doing, sulking out here all alone? Had enough of staring at our ugly mugs? I mean, I get it... my face ain't winning any beauty contests, but Rick's got that brooding pretty-boy thing going on. Bet you'd rather look at him, eh?"

{Aron.... Of course it was Aron...}

The man stumbled into view, his grin lopsided and his breath reeking of whatever swill passed for liquor in this hellhole. He was already three sheets to the wind, his cheeks flushed beneath the grime and stubble.

{This little shit...}

The Captain's lips twitched despite himself. In one swift motion, he snagged Aron by the scruff of his neck, ruffling his hair like he'd done when the kid was still a scrawny brat stealing bread to survive.

"Since when do I want to stare at any of your sorry asses? You've been drinking so much you've forgotten who signs your paychecks?"

Aron just wheezed a laugh, swatting half-heartedly at the Captain's grip. "C'mon, old man, you'd miss me if I was gone!"

Damn right he would.

Aron and Rick were both orphans, both too young to know better when they'd signed their lives away to the merc trade. The Captain hadn't asked for them. Hadn't wanted the responsibility. But the world had a way of dumping strays in his lap, and somehow, against all odds, they'd survived. Thrived, even.

Now they were men. Skilled enough to lead their own crews if they wanted. But they stayed. Loyalty was a rare currency in their line of work.

The Captain released Aron with a grunt, wiping his hand on his pants. "Where's Rick? Still sulking in the APC?"

Aron shrugged, taking another swig. "You know how he gets. Moody bastard nearly put a round in some drunk last week just for breathing too loud in his direction. Better to let him brood it out."

The Captain sighed. Rick had always been the quieter of the two, the one who carried his scars where they didn't show.

For a moment, the night was still. Just the hum of distant conversation, the clink of bottles, and the whisper of the wind over the dunes.

The two men drank in companionable silence, the foul aftertaste of the local brew clinging to their tongues like cheap medicine.

It was swill... barely fit for human consumption but in a backwater desert outpost where the only alternative was fermented cactus juice, it might as well have been ambrosia.

"Should've smuggled in a crate of proper lager," Aron muttered while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The Captain snorted. "And pay a fortune in interplanetary tariffs? Dream on."

They both knew the truth: mercs like them weren't drinking for the flavor. They drank to forget the heat, the sand in their boots, and the ghosts that followed them from one war zone to the next.

But tonight, the universe had other plans.

[ALERT: MASSIVE MOVEMENT DETECTED – SOUTHERN SECTOR]

The warning blared across the Captain's neural HUD, a cold, mechanical voice slicing through the haze of alcohol and fatigue. His spine straightened instantly, decades of instinct overriding the sluggishness of age.

Perimeter sensors tripped. Something big. Something fast.

He was old, yes. But age had honed him, sharpened his senses like a blade worn down to its deadliest edge. He'd learned long ago that survival wasn't about strength; it was about preparation.

And so, every camp, every outpost, every piss-stained tavern they holed up in? He'd wired it with motion trackers, seismic readers, and thermal drones. A paranoid habit, some said.

But tonight, it would save their lives.

"EVERYONE UP!" His voice was a whip crack, slicing through the night. "Movement south, unknown numbers, unknown hostiles. But the scanners picked up warbeasts. We're not waiting to find out if they're friendly."

The tavern's patrons, mercs, locals, and the usual dregs of the frontier froze for half a second before chaos erupted. The Captain didn't blame them. In their line of work, hesitation was a death sentence.

"Aron!" He shouted out while tossing his empty bottle aside. "Sober up and get to the rooftops. Take the Hawks with you! I want eyes on everything that moves."

Aron didn't argue. In one fluid motion, he palmed the detox pill from his belt and dry-swallowed it. The drug hit his bloodstream instantly, purging the alcohol like a fire burning through dry kindling. Within two minutes, his pupils sharpened, and his stance steadied.

{Good. Drunk men died fast...}

Around them, the village became a storm of motion. Mercs under contract moved with practiced efficiency, barricades snapped into place, barrier generators hummed to life, and the whine of charging energy weapons filled the air. The rest? Some stayed out of obligation, others out of misplaced bravery.

And then there were the cowards.

The Captain watched, jaw tight, as a handful of hired guns melted into the shadows, their boots kicking up dust as they fled. No loyalty, no honor. Just rats abandoning a sinking ship.

Let them run. He'd remember their faces.

"Status?" he growled into his comm.

"Fifty effectives, Captain."

"Barriers at 80%. Ammo stocked. But…"

"But?"

That single word hung in the air like a guillotine's blade. Fifty men against whatever nightmare was barreling toward them. His sensors had flagged the incoming force as massive and in his experience, that meant over two hundred.

Then the first scream tore through the night.

"CONTACT! SOUTHERN GATE! OH SWEET FUCK—"

The transmission cut into static. The Captain didn't need the report. His augmented optics flickered to life, zooming in on the horizon and what he saw turned his blood to ice.

Warbeasts. Not just one. Not just a pack.... A tidal wave of them.

Six-meter lizards armored in bio-plated scales. Hyena-like monstrosities with too many eyes and jaws that unhinged like snakes. Things that slithered, things that crawled, things that moved in ways flesh shouldn't.

And they weren't just approaching. They were surrounding the village.

The Captain's finger hovered over his rifle's.

"Open fire!!!" His voice roared above the chaos, raw with command, though the tremor of fear clawed at his throat.

The sight before them was monstrous and unnatural, but years of hardened mercenary work had carved instinct deeper than terror. His men weren't greenhorns either; they'd danced with death before. At his order, their discipline snapped into place like rifle bolts locking home.

A storm of searing lasers and copper-jacketed bullets erupted from their fortified barrier, cutting through the smoke-choked air. The lasers hissed like vengeful spirits, their scorching beams biting deep into the warbeast's hide.

The copper slugs, however, sparked and ricocheted wildly off the medium warbeast's armored plates, leaving only smears of molten metal in their wake. Still, they chewed through the smaller ones, limbs tore, blackened flesh split, yet the creatures didn't slow.

But if firepower alone could kill these things, warbeasts would've been scrap metal decades ago.

The medium warbeast with their hides pocked with smoking craters didn't flinch. No pain. No fear. Just relentless, grinding purpose.

They slammed into the barrier again and again; the reinforced barrier groaned like a dying animal. Spiderweb cracks raced across the transparent alloy, each impact shuddering through the mercs' boots.

The captain's jaw clenched. He knew that sound... He had heard it before, in the last seconds of overrun outposts.