Date: 6:00 AM, April 2, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Dawn broke cold and gray over Cheyenne Mountain, its light seeping through the core’s cracked viewport as Sarah jolted awake, the psychic hum surging—“Now… strike…”—a jagged blade in her skull. She grabbed her M16, fifteen rounds chambered, the knife already in her belt. Kessler was up too, rifle in hand, grenade clipped, her eyes sharp despite the shadows under them.
“Showtime,” Kessler muttered, as a rumble shook the floor—seismic, not jets—followed by the Hive Tyrant’s roar, distant but closing fast.
Harrington burst in, radio crackling—“Bio-ships advancing—west wall, full swarm!”—his voice cutting through the waking soldiers’ scramble. “Positions—core’s the line! Thompson, what’s your head saying?”
Sarah gripped her rifle, the hum roaring—“All… now…” “Everything—Tyrant topside, Trygon below, swarm with ‘em. They’re hitting hard—coordinated.”
“Damn,” Harrington growled, waving the seven soldiers to the hatch—mines armed, rifles up. “Jets are east—rearming, twenty minutes out. We hold ‘til then. Kessler, traps—Thompson, with me.”
The core trembled—screens flared, bio-ships looming five miles west, tendrils dropping gaunts, hormagaunts, gargoyles—a tide crashing toward the sealed breach. The Tyrant led, its cracked chitin gleaming, claws slashing rubble aside. Below, seismic spiked—Trygon, level 6, tunneling up.
Kessler hit the mine remote—booms echoed outside, gaunts shredded in blasts, slowing the swarm. Sarah followed Harrington to the console, drone feed showing the Tyrant shrugging off turret fire—two left, sparking, faltering. “Too tough,” she said, the hum snarling—“Break…”
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“Jets’ll soften it,” Harrington said, grabbing a comm. “Outer teams—RPGs, focus the big one!” A crackle answered—“Firing—lost Evans, it’s through!”—the feed cut, static swallowing the west wall.
The floor buckled—Trygon erupted, maw snapping, tendrils lashing a soldier into the wall, blood spraying. Soldiers fired—rifles chattered, a grenade burst under its belly—ichor gushed, but it roared, tail crushing a crate, pinning a screaming private. Sarah fired, bursts into its eyes—blinding it, slowing it—Kessler’s grenade followed, exploding in its throat, forcing it back into the hole.
“Seal it!” Harrington yelled—soldiers dragged steel, welding fast, but the hatch shook—gaunts clawing through, the Tyrant’s roar closer. Sarah’s hum screamed—“Inside…”—as the hatch split, claws piercing, gaunts flooding in.
“Line—hold!” Kessler shouted, firing—three rounds, then pistol, dropping two. Sarah’s M16 barked—ten rounds left—gaunts falling, ichor pooling, but the Tyrant loomed, blade-arm smashing the hatch wide, psychic weight slamming her—“You…”
Harrington fired his pistol—empty—grabbing a steel pipe, swinging at a gaunt, crushing its skull. “RPG—now!” A soldier—Miller—launched the last rocket—boom, it hit the Tyrant’s chest, cracking deeper, staggering it. It roared, swiping—Miller flew, neck snapped, RPG clattering.
Sarah dove for it—no rocket, useless—firing her last rounds into the Tyrant’s face, sparks flying. Kessler’s pistol clicked dry—she tackled a gaunt off Sarah, snapping its neck with a grunt. “Out—fall back!”
The core shrank—five soldiers left, civilians screaming, the Tyrant forcing through, gaunts swarming. A jet’s roar cut the air—F-22s, finally—missiles streaking outside, bio-ships flaming, tendrils burning. One jet dove, rockets slamming the Tyrant—fire erupted, its roar faltering, arm severed, retreating under the barrage.
“Trygon’s quiet!” a tech yelled—seismic flat, the lower beast stalled. The hum weakened—“Pain… later…”—Tyranids pulling back, bio-ships retreating west, gaunts scattering.
Sarah collapsed, rifle empty, knife out, panting. Kessler slumped beside her, blood on her hands—gaunt’s, not hers. Harrington dropped the pipe, breathing hard. “Held—again.”
“Barely,” Sarah said, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Jake’s ghost silent, the fight hers still. Five guns left, jets circling—a dawn won, not secured.
Harrington stared at the screens—bio-ships fading, the mountain cracked but standing. “Rest—jets’ll watch. We’re not dead.”
Not yet.
