Thousands of miles from the massive planet known as Orst a small moon explodes.

The debris is ejected at high velocity, many pieces of which simply shatter into the smallest of fragments, while the larger chunks are sent spinning end over end into the recesses of space. In the stillness that follows a previously unseen vessel crept out from behind the cover of an otherwise barren planet, traversing carefully towards the debris. It bears no distinguishing marks, no proud sigils, and is little more than a thousand yard black ovoid that bristles with jutting rods and shafts that end in grappling claws. As it draws closer to the largest of the moonrocks the extremities of the ship swivel in their mounts and fire their hooks into the whirling junk, the impact sending shudders through it but not with enough force to break it down further. Sturdy chains connect the hooks to the ship itself, and they are drawn taut, holding fast to the moonrock and forcing its gyrations to end. Their prey caught, the ship then reels it in for the waiting work crews who will repurpose it for the Herald’s needs.

Many hours later a collection of meteoroids are hurtling towards Orst, and among their number are the landing pods that carry the agents themselves along with their much-needed gear. The pods are disguised carefully to appear as though they are just solid pieces of rock, though greater efforts still have gone into threading each pod with treated sheets of Mortem metal to not only prevent life signs from being detected within but to impart durability for the sake of the inhabitants.

“Begin operation: Order of the Falling Rocks.”

The disembodied voice is androgynous, and the utterance can only be heard in one of the pods now starting to blaze through Orst’s atmosphere. The pocket within the camouflaged pod is small, barely big enough to fit a body, and is adorned with an array of monitors and tubes. The monitors all light up as the first syllables of the sentence are uttered, and the tubes themselves protrude and punch into the only other object inside that lies atop a full chair: a large, pinkish membrane that pulses with the heartbeats of the man inside of it. They are slow and steady due to the state of hibernation he has been kept in, but as the pod’s tendrils bite into the membrane the pace quickens with the flow of blood and the siphoning of the cocoon itself. A few excruciating minutes pass as the protective sheen is sucked away and life is breathed into Karis, and he awakens with a sharp, wet cough. His dark skin is covered with sweat and his green hair is little more than a wet mop of thick strands. It takes some effort for him to push his heavy lids open, revealing synthetically steel blue eyes. The Herald groggily sweeps his gaze along the shining monitors, observing the data but not comprehending it yet, and it is only thanks to the restraints keeping him in his chair that his bulky limbs do not instinctively stretch out and strike an interior component.

“[b]Fuck[/b]. Grell, get these things off of me.”

There is a harshness in his tone that cuts through any fondness of familiarity. The artificial intelligence within his body does not laugh, but when the same strange voice echoes from the pod once more, there is a sign of amusement in how matter of factly it responds.

“Negative, operative T’amor. You are not clear for freedom of movement, we are still making entry.”

Karis says nothing else, scowling as he surveys the displays before him. All of the numbers showed positive readouts: the exterior hull was still intact, the landing site was on target, and the atmosphere was just as breathable as the initial scans of the planet had surmised. He and his team would be landing in a heavily wooded area that would be rich in prospective soft resources. The forge could be set up there temporarily for material conversion, and once the scout had done their work they would move on.

[i]I still can’t believe you’re joining the Rangers. That’s worse than a death sentence.[/i]

The former Enforcer’s scowl thickens at the memory, the blocky features of his face becoming contorted in his irritation. The work was going to be dangerous, but the rewards would be great. Enacting the will of the overlord had already been far more perilous than he thought it would be, and he believed that by taking even more risks for something of his own he would finally get what he desired - true power. The officers he had left behind were foolish cowards, lazing around in the bulk of the fleet. The Heralds were the shapers of the armada’s destiny, paving a way for a better future for their people to advance down. Orst in particular was a gem among the stars, full of riches waiting to be plundered.

Still, there was something to be said about the snide comments about the “long-rangers,” and the experimental methods that they used to reach their destinations unnoticed. Blowing up a moon to create a diversionary scattershot to land a group of operatives on the planet seemed like a lot of extra steps. At least the engineering crew had put in a lot of work on carving up and hollowing out the rocks that would be used to house them.

One of the monitors flickered red, then bright orange.

Even as Karis’ head swiveled to look at it, the AI’s voice droned the information inside his skull.

“There’s a minor breach. Sealant is being deployed.”

A few seconds drew themselves out before Karis’ eyes. He began to sweat more. The monitor stayed orange, the data displaying some truly unfortunate news. The sealant had failed, and the hole had grown wide enough to start venting oxygen. If he was lucky he would just asphyxiate before the heat buildup from the orbital drop cooked him alive.

“Grell, give me a solution.”

[i]The Artificial Intelligence inside of you will serve as an assistant with tactical analysis. Keep in mind that it has no real will of its own. Please do not give it a name. It is not a pet.[/i]

All of the monitors shut off immediately, a switch flicked by an invisible hand.

“Do not panic, operative T’amor. Regulate your breathing. I will divert all power into cooling the interior, and I urge you to use as little energy as you can.”

The Herald ground his teeth as he clenched his jaws tightly shut, and took a short breath in through his nostrils.

[i]It doesn’t make much sense to keep talking to you under code names and numbers. If you’re going to be in my head all the time, you’re going to be something more than a figment - I’m going to call you Grell.[/i]

He had seen the data projected on the orange monitor before it had winked out, and even without the aid of his so-called assistant he could run those numbers just fine by himself. His chances of survival were roughly six percent, and keeping the heat down was mostly going to be for his own comfort before he passed out.

[i]What kind of name is Grell? I’ve read your case file as part of my installation. Your family had not been allowed to keep an animal, the food stocks were too low at the time of your childhood. Your adult living quarters have never been cleared for multiple occupancy, either.
[/i]

“Don’t let me die. Don’t let me become meat.”

Karis’ eyes were squeezed shut, and a few trickles of moisture descended along his cheeks. Neither one of them were willing to admit if those were tears or not. The AI paused, as if uncertain of how to respond. An idea formed in the Herald’s mind, and he spared a few more breaths to intone it.

“Redeploy the stasis membrane. Override five five four five.”

[i]Case files don’t cover everything. I know I’ve only spoken the basic rites and attended the required ceremonies for promotion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know the Fables. There is a…character named Grell within Myth. Why don’t you look that one up? You’re not just some pet, after all.[/i]

The membrane was designed to be recycled into food and fuel for Vitae forging, but aside from those utility purposes the side effects of landing while still in stasis had often shown short term memory loss and organ failure. Denial of those potential resources and the hazard of a damaged operative could compromise the mission. Grell processed the override, but the pod did not spring into action yet. Karis suddenly opened his eyes wide, and his mouth gaped into a furious roar.

“DON’T LET ME DIE!”

[i]I see. Grell was a symbiote designed for the fourth generation that allowed them to survive in deep space when drives were down and gravity was too light for bone density to remain consistent. It was later subsumed into the evolution of the fifth generation. Is that how you see me, operative? Something to aid you and to eventually be consumed by you?[/i]

The tubes snaked back out on the AI’s command, pushing past the system’s resistance of the operative’s inadequate passphrase.

[i]That’s not how I see Grell. They lived as one with us, kept us together in the face of desperate times, and became a part of us forever. The new breed could not have existed without Grell, and a hive mind like that does not simply die out. Grell was not a tool. Grell was a people that integrated into our own, like so many have in the past, and we honor it. Even if you are just a computer system, you’re still a part of me now.[/i]

Thousands of miles away, a status screen flared to life. A bald man in a pressed silver and gray uniform turned to stare at it, a frown creasing his lips. Getting a report out of sync was never a good sign. It took him only a few moments to absorb the contents of the log, and with each passing moment his brow only furrowed into a deeper knot.

Back on Orst, a series of thuds ushered in the arrival of extraterrestrial interlopers as fiery rocks crashed into a thicket amidst the woods of a wild zone. The Heralds had made landfall, though it remained to be seen how they all fared. The first of the pods to crack the earth began to tremble, then shed its smoldering outer layers to reveal the metal framework beneath. Inside the chamber a lone occupant stirred, hands groping and straining against the walls of a strange mass of biological matter.