"Uhh…" Julius blinked against the glare, trying to recall where he was. As he slowly opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was all the destruction. His mercenary comrades lay strewn about—dead or dying—blood everywhere. A jagged hole in the side of the spaceship yawned open, revealing the stars and the black void of space beyond. If not for the glowing force field that covered the breach, he would probably already be drifting into the abyss.
Then the pain struck him as he tried to breathe. His left arm was gone from the elbow down, and his ribs felt like splintered wood beneath his chest plate. Part of his armor had been ripped away entirely, leaving exposed flesh that sizzled against the cold air. Julius's vision swam as he fought the searing agony, his last coherent memory of battle flashing behind his eyes: plasma torpedoes, metal shredding, the shriek of a dying engine.
He gasped, the suit's life-support systems whirring to compensate. A smooth, resonant voice echoed in his mind—calm, neutral, entirely alien.
"Subject Julius Reyes. Vital signs critical. Initiating emergency protocols."
Julius's heart stuttered. Emergency protocols? He tried to form words, but only managed a strangled groan.
"Pain threshold exceeded. Administering nanite analgesic," the voice continued.
A soft warmth coursed through his chest, dulling the pain to a manageable throb. He tried to focus on the voice's source—no speakers, no implant he could feel. The suit itself must be talking.
He forced himself to sit up, wincing as fresh waves of pain radiated through his torso. The suit's interior lining quivered, like liquid metal adjusting around him. He watched, fascinated and horrified, as strands of dark, iridescent material seeped from the wounded area, knitting his torn armor back together over fractured joints.
"Symbiotic integration at thirty percent," the voice reported. "Biomass conversion in progress."
Julius swallowed hard. Biomass conversion. That meant it was using his own organic tissue—flesh and bone—to regenerate the armor. The process felt strange: part tingle, part swoosh of scales sliding into place. He flexed his remaining wrist and felt the suit's intricate mesh of circuits ripple beneath his palm, like a living tattoo.
"Status?" he croaked.
"Critical injuries stabilized. Full functionality of left forearm and hand compromised. Suggest manual override for prosthetic projection."
Julius took a breath. "Manual… override?"
A section of the armor peeled back along his forearm stump, revealing a nest of bioluminescent tendrils curled like coiled wires. With a soft hiss, they extended outward, knitting into a sleek, metallic forearm capped with a mechanical hand. Each finger ended in segmented plates that clicked softly as they aligned.
A surge of adrenaline accompanied the transformation. He willed the hand to close, and it obeyed perfectly. His heart pounded—not from fear or pain, but awe. This suit was alive.
"Prosthetic module online," the suit confirmed. "Would you like a diagnostic demonstration?"
Julius hesitated only a moment before nodding. The suit lit up, its veins glowing emerald, and a holographic interface materialized above his wrist. Samurai-like glyphs and numerical readouts floated in midair. He recognized some of the standard HUD elements—oxygen levels, power reserves—but others were alien symbols he'd never seen.
He tapped one of the glyphs. A cascade of data scrolled past in a language he couldn't decipher. The suit's voice spoke again: "Translated parameters available."
A second menu appeared in English. Weapon systems, defensive matrix, life-support efficiency. All nominal, despite the recent carnage.
Julius swallowed. "What… what is this thing?"
"Designation: Echelon X-9," the suit replied. "Prototype techno-organic symbiotic combat exoskeleton. You are the primary host."
"My host," Julius echoed, astonished. "So… you're alive? You're—or it's—alive?"
"Symbiosis requires mutual adaptation. I provide metabolic regulation, enhanced strength, rapid repair, tactical augmentation. You provide cognitive oversight and organic biomass."
His chest tightened at the word biomass. Yet the suit's regenerative power had saved him—no medics would've reached him in time. He'd have bled out in seconds.
He tried to stand. The suit's hydraulic servos hummed in his legs, easing the burden on his battered body. He rose, though his vision blurred. Around him lay the aftermath of the ambush: bodies of soldiers in similar suits, some flickering, their integration aborted. The floor was strewn with scorched armor, broken weapons, and blood.
Julius stepped over a fallen comrade, rifle still clutched in the dead man's hand. He felt a pang of guilt—he hadn't been able to help. But he also felt something else: power, potential, responsibility.
"Situation report," he ordered.
"Enemy boarding drones neutralized. Ship's hull integrity compromised in multiple sectors. Life-support in cabin five is offline. You are ten minutes from environmental collapse."
He frowned. Five men dead, dozens drifting toward certain death in vacuum. He had to act. "Where's the captain?"
"The bridge is sealed. Her vital signs are stable. She is awaiting rescue orders."
Julius hated waiting. "Open a path to the bridge. Get me through."
"Path clearance will require structural breach. Recommend tactical plasma cutter or manual override breach."
He reached behind his back and unclipped his sidearm. But the plasma cutter—what remained of it—had been reduced to molten slag. He'd lost most of his gear. The suit must supply tools. He whispered: "Symbiote, module deployment."
"Deploying tools," the voice responded.
Within seconds, the forearm panel slid open again, ejecting a compact device that unfolded into a glowing plasma torch. Julius caught it, tested the trigger, and felt the familiar hum of power. He gripped it tightly. This was not the renegade tool he once knew—it was integrated, attuned to his nervous system.
"Lead me," he said.
A soft glow traced a line across the deck plating, illuminating a path through the wreckage. Julius followed, torch in hand, striding toward the bridge hatch. The suit's interface displayed schematics in midair, showing structural weak points and energy conduits.
He reached the hatch. Air pressure still held it shut. The torch's plasma beam carved through the metal in seconds. With a hiss, the door yielded, and he stepped into the dim corridor beyond.
Red emergency lights pulsed. The air smelled of ozone and burnt circuits. He advanced, cautious, every sense heightened by the suit's sensors. Motion trackers pinged faintly—life signs ahead.
"There she is," the suit whispered in his mind. "Captain Brinley, unconscious but alive."
He quickened his pace and burst into the bridge. The captain lay on the floor, sealed in a medical pod that had lost power. A collapsing shield of crackling energy danced around it. Julius aimed his torch at the power node at the base of the pod. Sparks flew as he cut through sealed panels.
Behind him, a sharp metal screech—drones. He turned. Three of the spider-like machines skittered into view, mandibles snapping.
"Engage defensive protocol," he ordered.
The suit's tendrils burst from his back, forming a segmented chitinous shield. Julius fired the plasma torch like a shotgun blast, incinerating the first drone. The other two recoiled, but the suit reacted instantly, projecting a plasma bolt that struck one in the head and vaporized it. The third collapsed under a rain of needle-like projectiles that extended from Julius's fingers.
Silence.
He turned back to the pod. Inside, the captain's eyes fluttered open. She stared at him, bewildered.
"Jules?" she whispered.
"Let's get you out of there," he said, unclipping the pod lid. As he lifted her free, the suit's regenerative fibers swirled around his torso, knitting small tears in his armor. He looked down at his missing arm stump, now a fully operational prosthetic glowing with life.
She stared in wonder, then focused on his face. "Is that… you?"
He let her up. Her gaze traveled along the sleek contours of the suit. "It saved me," he said softly. "Now, I save you."
Above them, the hole in the hull leaked starlight. Julian steadied the captain in his mechanical embrace. Together, they turned toward the corridor, the techno-organic suit's hum echoing through the darkness—a promise of rebirth amid ruin, and the first step in a new symbiotic journey.