THE GALACTIC WAR ROOM

S.E.S. Commando’s Convene

2185.05.12

Adamas found their fingers wandering vaguely towards their sidearm.

All Commander-level Helldivers are required to wear a sidearm of their own choosing, at all times. The purpose has never been really clear; the most common theory is to ensure the ability to execute defective subordinates or deter dissident thoughts on the spot. Most commanders simply ceremoniously wear a Peacemaker, being cheap and easy to maintain; some take a Verdict, as a nod to the traditional sidearm of the President of Super Earth; those who tend to compensate for something, or have a passion for cowboys, occasionally choose the Senator.

Adamas’s secondary of choice is a small, modest, pocket-sized flamethrower.

They’re a practical person, against all odds. The chances for them, as busy as they were, to run into stray (flame-retardant) dissidents, are rather low. So they chose their sidearm like any other Helldiver would: to be able to spread just a little more democracy when his primary runs dry. And also they love giving factory striders a warm belly rub.

Throughout their combat career, their Crisper has saved them more times than he had cared to count. It was surprisingly reliable - you hardly need pinpoint precision for a jet of flaming napalm - and it consistently punched above its weight, burning through heavy armor to fry whatever terminid guts or automaton circuitry was inside.

Over time, this created a sort of instinctual reflex: whenever their gut told him they were in danger, they would subconsciously reach for the Crisper on their side. And this, this had danger written all over it, they thought as they made the last few steps to the Galactic War Table.

“What am I looking at? Walk me through this debacle. Something about a SATCOM station picking up weird signals?”

The analyst staring at the mass of flashing screens and blinking warning lights didn’t bother looking up. “We’re looking at Station-81, sir. The station assigned to observe the Meridian Singularity. 38 hours ago, the station just went completely offline. We had a few more tech-savvy Helldivers help recalibrate the datablocks according to the neighbouring stations, and we managed to bring it online again around 12 hours ago.”

“So all is fine then.” Adamas did not sound convinced.

“Not exactly. The station didn’t register any anomalies until… half an hour ago. We received a slight increase in abnormal spacetime fluctuations at first, but it grew… exponentially. As of now, Meridia… its surrounding spacetime is positively churning with fluctuations.” The analyst pointed at the rather obvious gigantic “SPACETIME FLUCTUATION DETECTED” warning sign on the center screen. “It’s like looking down a relativistic whirlpool over there.”

The analyst, Lia, had made a slight mistake in her description of the Singularity at that moment, but it would be mere minutes before she very quickly got corrected. A whirlpool usually sucks things down. The Meridian Singularity is more of the opposite nature. It tends to spit things out. And a lot of things were about to get spit out.

Alarms buzzed to life around the Galactic War Room. Sensors and monitors tried desperately to make sense of the situation, realized the gravity of the matter at stake, gave up, sputtered and died. The main Station-81 camera array, through sheer power of Democratic ingenuity, managed to continue transmitting to the big screen, though had it possessed sapience, it wouldn’t have believed its own data.

The crew watched in horror as a small white dot jumped out of the whirling singularity. Then two, then three, then dozens, then hundreds. The energy readings the sensors last gave were unmistakeable: a massive amount of FTL jumps, performed almost simultaneously.

Meridia was never a black hole. It was a wormhole. A tunnel.

“Magnify.” Lia’s voice trembled as she gave the command to the computer. The camera feed vibrated slightly as mechanical parts on the satellite strained to refocus the image.

The first thoughts on what the image looked like, to everyone in the room, was the word, “alien”. A gargantuan vessel, the size of several Super Destroyers, with a dome-shaped front tapering down to a long, slender body, segmented radially into jointed biomechanical-looking spikes. All eerily pale, dotted with flickering purple and blue lights. What’s truly a sight to behold was the tentacles trailing behind the ship, tens of kilometers long, glimmering blue against the dark background of space, slowly waving from side to side as if swimming in the ether. In the months that followed, they would be dubbed Overships.

The edges of the camera feed turned to static. Then it cut to black. Then, as if it wasn’t dramatic enough, the screens, one by one, turned back on. A sickly purple glow illuminated the room as all the screens showed the same message. A mess of squiggled lines and dots, in a language no human can understand. The Illuminate writing system.

Despite the blaring alarms, the bridge was surprisingly quiet. No one moved as the crew tried to comprehend what had happened.

“Those damned squids…” breathed Adamas, breaking the shocked silence.

“Broadcasted message from High Command!”

ALERT -- ALERT -- ALERT --
ILLUMINATE FLEET I.V.O. WORMHOLE
WIDOW'S HARBOR ATTACKED
ALL UNITS TO WIDOW'S HARBOR

“A State of Extratyrannical Emergency has been declared. SEAF defenses are being bolstered. High Command believes this Fleet's ultimate objective to be…” the analyst’s voice trailed off.

“...the invasion of Super Earth itself.”

“Adamas? ADAMAS!”

Adamas blinked. They looked down at their side. They have been gripping his Crisper so hard their knuckles turned white, and their finger was dangerously close to the trigger. They quickly reholstered it and took a deep breath to calm themselves down a little.

“Most of our systems must be compromised from whatever the squids had thrown at us. Fix what you can fix quickly and replace what you can’t - this is not a time to be frugal, we’re being attacked here! Keep me posted for any high command dispatches, gather the Commandos, prep the War Room for a broadcast of the highest priority, and-” they paused to breathe amidst the sudden scramble.

“And get me a secure line to the Commissar.”