I Am The Swarm

The Rikens, being the native inhabitants of their star system, had spent countless years establishing their presence there. Despite being cornered into holding only the orbits of planets 3, 4, 5, and 6 due to the Swarm’s dominance, most of their previously deployed observation devices remained operational.

This wasn’t for lack of effort on the Swarm’s part—they would gladly have cleared out these devices. However, the observation units were cleverly concealed, difficult to detect, and scattered across the vast expanse of the star system.

The Swarm’s Mature and Larval bodies, lacking Atomic Furnaces, were incapable of long-range operations. Clearing these devices would require the use of Primordial bodies, which, though numerous, were not infinite. Sending thousands of Primordial bodies across the system would be akin to tossing pebbles into an ocean—achieving minimal impact while risking their forces being divided and picked off by concentrated Riken counterattacks.

Thus, these “small annoyances” were left for later, and they continued to provide the Rikens with some insight into the star system’s happenings.

In a dimly lit room, ten large monitors hung on one wall, each split into a 5×4 grid of smaller screens, all currently blacked out. Opposite this wall were several additional monitors, their surfaces filled with chaotic lines, flashing red and green lights, and other symbols incomprehensible to anyone lacking technical expertise.

Between the two walls, a bored Riken soldier slouched in a swivel chair. This room, located in an underground fortress on Planet Riven, was a typical Riken-style monitoring center. The soldier’s duty was to oversee and maintain the daily operations of over 200 monitoring devices.

The external units of these devices were 2×2 cubic metal constructs coated with stealth materials. Inside, they housed a variety of sensors, optical recording instruments, transmission modules, high-energy batteries, and small engine modules.

While they seemed well-equipped, these devices were closer to disposable tools. Launched via specialized ejectors, their engine modules were compact and rudimentary, limited by the Rikens’ current technological capabilities.

Indeed, the engines relied on battery power, which provided only minimal thrust for deceleration and redirection. Propulsion was generated entirely by the launching ejectors, a design reminiscent of the Swarm’s Meteor Launchers.

Once deployed and positioned, the devices decelerated until captured by the gravitational pull of nearby objects. A small solar panel recharged their high-energy batteries over time.

In normal operation, they remained dormant to conserve energy and minimize detectable emissions. Data collection was passive, using external sensors to monitor their surroundings. Upon detecting anomalies, the devices activated their optical recording systems, using their engines to adjust position and aim concealed cameras at the detected phenomenon.

Once recording began, the transmission module activated, streaming real-time footage back to the Riken monitoring centers. This long-range transmission consumed most of the battery’s stored energy and generated significant energy fluctuations, making the devices highly visible. If the anomaly turned out to be hostile forces, the exposed unit would likely be destroyed.

For this reason, the devices were treated as expendable.

Given their passive nature, the soldier monitoring over 200 such devices rarely had anything to do. With thousands of similar monitoring centers across the Riken-controlled region, such soldiers typically faced long, uneventful shifts.

This particular soldier had just turned off the room’s lights, planning to sneak in a nap. The darkened monitors offered no entertainment, and the monotony of his post often lulled him into drowsiness. Working in a secluded, seldom-visited station, naps had become a norm.

Just as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the piercing sound of an alarm erupted. The blaring noise reverberated through the confined room, leaving his head buzzing. Simultaneously, red warning lights flared, bathing the dim space in frantic, strobing flashes.

The Riken soldier forced himself to overcome the discomfort, jumping up from his chair and hurrying to the corner of the room to flip the light switch. The room brightened, and the once-blinding red strobe became far less abrasive. Breathing a sigh of relief, he thought that if the flashing had persisted, he might have lost his lunch.

Although it was his first time encountering such a situation on duty, his training kept him from panicking. He’d also heard similar stories from his colleagues, typically involving either passing meteors or Swarm forces.

Meteors were nothing unusual, and as for the Swarm—well, their detestable presence was everywhere outside. Triggering a few observation units wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

The soldier mused about suggesting improvements to the research department, perhaps incorporating an automatic identification feature to avoid unnecessary scares, replacing the alarm with something less jarring, and dimming the alert lights to be easier on the eyes…

Grumbling to himself, the soldier casually approached the operations platform under the wall-mounted screens. One small square on one of the screens was now illuminated, indicating that an external observation unit was functioning properly and had successfully transmitted video footage.

With a lazy flick of his finger, he opened the feed. After a brief buffering period, the footage loaded, and what appeared on the screen left him utterly speechless.

The video did not display a meteor, nor did it show the hated Swarm. Instead, it captured the approach of an enormous fleet. Cold, metallic ships clad in dark red paint emanated an oppressive, bloodthirsty aura.

The recording continued for about two minutes before concluding with a beam of light emanating from the fleet’s direction, cutting off the feed and plunging the screen into darkness. The soldier realized the observation unit had been destroyed—roughly 30 minutes prior, given that light in space doesn’t travel instantaneously across vast distances.

After double-checking the equipment to confirm there were no malfunctions or pranks involved, he finally grasped the gravity of the situation.

Taking several deep breaths to steady himself, the soldier reached for a key hanging around his neck and used it to unlock a protective cover on the operations panel.

Beneath the cover lay a large red button. Pressing it frivolously could result in a court-martial, but this was no time for hesitation. The soldier braced himself, placing both hands firmly on the button, rising onto his toes, and pressing down with the full weight of his body.

The button depressed with a soft click. Contrary to expectation, there were no dramatic sounds or flashing lights. Even the room’s original alarm and warning lights ceased their blaring.

Relieved, the soldier let out a long exhale. His job was done—the matter was now in the hands of higher authorities.

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