Intergalactic conquest with an AI

She entered a side room that was the former control center, now blackened by fire. Somehow, a single chair had survived.

With a sigh, Lyra dusted it off and sat down, letting the weight of the day settle into her shoulders. The walls around her buzzed quietly, a remnant of the outpost's backup systems.

"Oh, but do me a favor, Tyty," she added, looking up at him. "Send that poor, half-dead Tyrant unit back to the destroyer. He's too tough to let go just yet. Tell the medics or whatever machine repair you guys that we've got up there to patch him up. Rebuild his chassis, reboot his mind... whatever it takes."

Tyty nodded. "Acknowledged. The unit will be transferred to the repair bay aboard the destroyer immediately."

Lyra leaned back in the chair and looked at the flickering ceiling lights, her voice soft again.

"It's strange, isn't it? This place was made by the Kaelzars to house war machines that are usually cold, efficient, and tireless. But even with all that, they still built it with places for people to sit… to sleep… to eat."

"Well… I guess this kind of comfort is something Cleo had in mind when she designed the outpost," Lyra murmured, her voice sounding low and thoughtful.

She stretched a little, then leaned back fully into the worn, half-burnt chair she had claimed as her temporary throne. Her posture became lazy and relaxed, her armored boots resting on the console in front of her like she had all the time in the world.

"Any new orders from High Command, Tyty?" she asked casually while tilting her head to glance at her silent guardian, who stood beside the doorway like a metallic statue.

The Tyrant unit turned his head slowly toward her, a soft mechanical hum escaping from his internal systems as he spoke.

"Negative, Commander. There have been no transmissions from High Command. Current data suggests a high probability that we are to remain on standby, focused on reconstruction of the outpost and securing its perimeter from further enemy incursions."

As he gave his report, Tyty's mechanical arm shifted slightly, a compartment opening with a quiet click as he reloaded a set of miniature missiles into a slot hidden beneath his armor plating. Each missile clicked into place with robotic precision.

Lyra let out a slow, drawn-out sigh.

"Mmm… fine. Then you handle that. Keep things running while I… rest my soul a little." She shifted again in her seat, lounging even more. "Oh, and before I forget... send some of our Shadow units to scout out the other groups lurking on this planet. I want eyes on every single one of them. That's our top priority now."

The Tyrant unit gave a nod of acknowledgment and turned on his heel without another word, exiting the room with his usual quiet, metallic grace.

Left alone in the darkened command chamber, Lyra tapped her arm-mounted device, trying to initiate a comm signal to her sister.

But the screen flickered, then displayed an error.

[No Signal. Antenna Array Damaged.]

The long-range communications hub had been one of the many things destroyed in the previous siege.

She lowered her arm and let out a short, tired sigh. A weight hung in her chest that wasn't from the power armor; it was the silence. The isolation. She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the chair, letting the time pass like sand through fingers.

A week went by.

During that time, the Blood Legion worked tirelessly. They pushed back the infected across multiple kilometers surrounding the outpost, methodically clearing nests, burning corpse piles, and sealing breach points.

Each patrol brought back samples for analysis and kept the perimeter secured until finally, after long days of quiet vigilance, the first trading convoy arrived.

The skies rumbled with the arrival of dozens of cargo haulers, each filled to the brim with precious supplies of stacks of alloy sheets, power cells, fuel tanks, replacement machinery, and, most importantly, hundreds of multi-purpose construction drones.

These sleek, spider-like machines scattered across the broken outpost like ants, immediately setting to work with synchronized efficiency. Walls began to rise again, floors were leveled, and generators were reignited. The outpost was being reborn, one spark at a time.

Deep in the scarred wilderness of the necrotech world, a convoy of different kind moved along a rocky path. A line of rugged utility transports and armored rovers crawled slowly through the blackened wasteland, surrounded by towering cliffs and long-dead forests.

Inside one of the lead vehicles, a young man sat with his arms crossed, his boots resting on the edge of a crate. His armor, sleek and modern, looked untouched, its surface too shiny, as if it had never seen real battle.

His messy brown hair peeked out from under his helmet, and a look of frustration pulled at his face.

"Sir, do we really have to come all the way to this cursed part of the planet just to talk to those metal freaks?" the young man grumbled. His voice dripped with boredom and annoyance as he stared out the cracked window at the desolate terrain beyond.

Seated next to him was a man twice his age, dressed in high-grade officer armor. Unlike the boy's pristine gear, his had seen wear, scratches, dents, and even a few scorched marks from past battles. His short gray hair framed a stern face, and his tone was as sharp as a blade.

"Watch your mouth, Martin," the older man said without looking at him. "You've got the nerve to talk like that because you've spent your days hunting infected like it's a damn game. You don't understand the situation we're in."

He sighed while rubbing the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. His voice grew colder.

"One day, someone's going to kill you, and you won't even know why. It won't be because you're weak; it'll be because you're stupid."

Martin rolled his eyes but said nothing, clearly used to these kinds of lectures. The tension inside the rover was thick, but the sound of rumbling engines and the sharp shrieks of distant infected gave their conversation a grim backdrop.

The older man looked out ahead as their vehicles approached the rebuilt walls of the Kaelzar outpost that was now guarded by rows of Blood Legion soldiers and hovering drones.

"Let's just get this over with," he muttered. "We came here to make contact. Let's hope their commander is in the mood to talk…"

As the convoy of armored vehicles rumbled to a halt just a few dozen meters from the outpost's massive reinforced gates, the dust of the necrotech plains swirled around their wheels, creating a hazy golden cloud under the morning sun.

The first to step out was the middle-aged man, the supposed diplomat and leader of the West Tiger Mercenary Company.

His power armor gleamed in the sunlight, polished to an almost ceremonial shine. It was clear from a glance that his armor was more for appearances than battle since it was a flashy display meant to impress or intimidate rather than protect.

Several of his personal guards exited the vehicles behind him, cautiously scanning their surroundings with their rifles at the ready. While disciplined, there was a nervous energy in their movements; after all, this place gave off the eerie silence of a battlefield recently won.

The man raised his arms in an exaggerated diplomatic gesture and shouted, his voice amplified by his armor's built-in loudspeaker system.

"Greetings, dear friends! I am the current leader of the West Tiger Mercenary Company, and I oversee the corporate outpost operating in this quadrant. I come humbly and with goodwill, hoping to request a formal audience with the commander of this stronghold!"

His voice echoed across the scorched terrain, bouncing off the broken structures and rubble around the perimeter. The response was not immediate. For several long, uncomfortable minutes, there was only the soft hum of his convoy's engines and the distant screeches of wildlife or infected.

Then, with a low mechanical growl, the enormous metallic gates of the Kaelzar Outpost groaned open, but only a narrow portion, just wide enough for a few figures to step through.

From the dim interior emerged a tall, heavily armored figure, the Tyrant unit and second in command of the outpost. He was flanked by six black-armored Aegis units of the Blood Legion. Their red visors glowed ominously beneath their helmets, and their rifles were already loaded and aimed downward but ready to snap up in an instant.

Tyty walked forward with slow, deliberate steps, the weight of his frame leaving deep prints in the ash-covered ground. He stopped a few meters from the middle-aged man and stared at him through glowing blue optical sensors.

"Greetings, envoy of the West Tiger Mercenary Company," Tyty said in his cold, mechanical voice. "I am the second in command of this outpost. Our commander has agreed to grant you an audience. You are to follow me inside."

Just the sight of Tyty and his broad shoulders, embedded weaponry, and sharp, angular armor was enough to make some of the younger mercenaries grip their weapons tighter. Their helmets masked their expressions, but the tension in the air was palpable.

However, the middle-aged man didn't even flinch. With a smile that seemed too practiced, he nodded and said, "Excellent! I'll prepare my convoy to roll in—"

But before he could return to his vehicle, Tyty's voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Halt. Only you have been granted access. All other personnel are to remain outside the perimeter until further notice."

The man's body tensed slightly, and though the twitch was subtle, Tyty's scanners picked it up with ease.

"I see… very well," the diplomat said smoothly, though the flicker of frustration was audible in his tone.

"But surely, you can allow me to bring two of my men as bodyguards? I'm only a diplomat, after all im not exactly built for fighting. And I would feel... uneasy walking into a fortress full of soldiers all alone."