Everyone for a moment stood in stunned silence.

  The illusion of Etrad that once stood on the ceiling also now lay in his own puddle of blood up there, in the same exact position several meters upside down above the ground.

  Was it an illusion? What hit him?

  And just like that, the Etrad on the ceiling instantly disappears without a sound or trace, all evidence of its existence vanishing in the next microsecond.

  On the floor, Etrad’s body continues to lay there, his head from the jaw up now spread across the floor and his comrades.

  Nobody in the Fifth Squad says anything. Murmurs began to spread across those who had just witnessed the event, but all were too awestruck. Their minds haven’t yet processed the unreality of what had just occurred. Their suits picked up data of increased heart and breath rates and brain activity in response to witnessing the ordeal.

  Tentatively, Calian reaches down and pokes Etrad with his gun.

  It was indeed physically tangible. Lifting the body up with his boot, Calian flips it over, so that it now lays on its back. Blood continues to leak out as a few teeth fall from the jaw, and the tongue almost severs from its bare thread.

  Vertan wiped blood splatter from his visor. He was here twenty years, and now for what? Vertan thought. A lightheadedness began to overtake him, and he had to steady himself to avoid falling over completely. His head swam from his inability to process these thoughts, and his lungs felt as though they struggled to bring air to the strained and exhausted fibers of his body.

  “Look!”

  Nearby, the surviving members of the Fourth Platoon spot another doppelganger amongst their cohort. He appears to come forth as equally confused as his double. Interestingly enough, this one seemed to move independently, unlike Etrad’s that moved just like him offset to another location.

  “Diim, that you? Which one are you?”

  “It’s this one! He’s been standing next to me this whole time!”

  “No, you’re wrong, that’s the impostor! He’s been in my sights since we got here!”

  “Fellas, it’s me! It’s really me!”

  “No, he’s lying!”

  “Guys, at least if we don’t touch it, neither will hurt us, right?”

  “Right, nobody touches anyone or anything until we figure this out!”

  “Put your hands up!”

  The argument continues amongst them as they interrogate Diim. Both Diims lay down their arms and put their hands behind the back of their heads, equally confused as the other. Down on their knees, the Fourth Platoon begins scanning them for any abnormalities, but nothing comes up on their instruments.

  Out of a strange sense of curiosity, Vertan points his Daero Counter directly at the two Diims.

  Immediately, the Counter crackled and beeped frantically, its dial leaping and thrashing about wildly, unable to give a clear reading. Pointing it away seemed to put it at ease a little, and the crackling and beeping subsided by a substantial margin, but nonetheless remained turned on, the same way it was just before Etrad’s demise.

  “Stop!” Vertan shouted. “Everyone! Get away—!”

  All seventy-six surviving members of the Fourth Platoon and the hundreds surrounding them instantly turn into blood paste.

  One of the Diims, likely the illusion, continues standing there, drenched in everyone else’s blood, equally as shocked and terrified as everyone else. Trembling profusely, he looks up and around, wide-eyed.

  Seconds later, he too instantly disappears without a sound or trace of his former existence.

  The Daero Counter immediately goes back to its soft crackle, its previously agitated meter hand calming itself back to the left side of the dial.

  *****

  Fero takes off his suit’s helmet to throw up in a corner, separated from the rest of the squad.

  “Fuck! FUCK! We’re going to die. We’re going to die here like animals!”

  “Shut up! You’re not helping!”

  “I need to get out of here! I need to get out of here!”

  “Please, God, anyone, answer our prayers!”

  A gunshot rings out. One of the members of another platoon had just committed suicide, his body falling to the soaked floor below. A distraught woman cries out in agony, presumably his partner. In response, she too points her gun to her head.

  Nobody objects to her grief.

  Another shot rings out, and another body joins the floor.

  Vertan continued to stare at the ocean of gore before him, the noise around him drowning out into incoherence. He is to die here, the same fate that befell everyone else before him. There is no escape, no exit, no way out that exists. He will bring nothing back to his mother, not even proof of his death. Like the rest before him, the only opportunity he finally seized for himself is the opportunity to die a brutal, torturous death in which even the dignity of an intact body is denied, here in the damp darkness humid from the vapor of countless lost others, his soul forever condemned to haunt Base Seven of Gateworld Thoma light-eons from home—

  A subtle pulse ripples through the ground beneath him once more.

  Knocked out of his stupor for a moment, Vertan is pulled back to full consciousness. Looking over, he notices Hilgo looking over at another anomaly. This one didn’t look like any of them, and with a well placed shot, Hilgo fires directly through it.

  The anomaly disappears, seemingly disintegrating from the shot.

  Another one comes into view, appearing to warp the light and space around it as it moves. Hilgo once more lines up his sights, zooming in to get a closer look, but Vertan places a hand on the rifle and motions him to lower it.

  “Hm?” grunts Hilgo.

  With an unchanging expression, Vertan points his Daero Counter at the visual anomaly. It continued to crackle softly, deviating very little from its current readings.

  “Save your ammo,” says Vertan.

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  For a moment, it seemed that the visual anomaly almost leapt wildly out at them, but it instead disappears, and a light falls from the ceiling and smashes to the ground below.

  “Hey!” a voice rings out.

  Everyone turns towards the source of this sound. A single man, badly injured and out of breath, had managed to rush into the center of Base Seven.

  “Thank goodness, everyone’s alive here!”

  “Identify yourself.”

  “Elmsan Sern from Thirteenth Squad, Tenth Company.”

  “Where’s the rest of your—?

  “All gone, it’s a bloodbath out there. I see everyone here has—”

  Vertan raises his handgun, aiming his sights squarely at Elmsan’s forehead.

  “Hey! Wait a minute! What’s going on?!”

  “Lower your arms, now!”

  “What is he doing?”

  Vertan continued to have his Daero Counter pointed at Elmsan in his other hand. It crackled and beeped, returning a stronger reading than before.

  “What are you doing with that thing pointed at me? I’m—”

  Vertan squeezes the trigger, sending a bullet hurtling directly through Elmsan’s brain. In that same instant, Elmsan appeared to freeze halfway into falling. His body hung suspended in space, the blood trail likewise still holding up a straight line in the direction of the bullet’s travel. The bullet buries itself in the wall behind him.

  “What the hell?!”

  “You shot one of our own men!”

  “How do you know that’s one of our own men?!”

  “He’s right there!”

  “They don’t die like that!”

  Vertan’s Daero Counter, almost immediately after his shot, softened its reading, as though somewhat relieved of its painful agitation. Still, it crackled and beeped, giving back a reading of over 75%. Slowly, Vertan approached Elmsan, frozen in suspended animation, and motions for the rest of the Fifth Squad to stay put and observe from a distance.

  And then just like that, Elmsan instantaneously vanishes, as does the blood trailing from his head. Likewise, the Counter’s dial hand immediately jumps back towards the left, the noises of its agony significantly subsiding. Everyone else slightly flinches from the sudden disappearance.

  “How morbidly fascinating,” Vertan mutters. He shakes his head.

  “What is it, Vertan?” asks Hilgo.

  “Daero Counter gave me a strong read on this guy,” replies Vertan.

  “But what about the other one?” Syani asks. “The one for Diim?”

  “I didn’t know, didn’t check,” responds Vertan. “Likely similar.”

  “And for Etrad?” asks Calian.

  “He shot himself,” replies Vertan.

  “So a strong Daero read is how we tell?” asks Hilgo.

  “The stronger the read, the bigger the threat,” replies Vertan. “I think.”

  “Makes sense I suppose,” Calian mutters.

  Out of a heightened sense of paranoia, Vertan points his Daero Counter across everyone. No changes in its reading were registered.

  “Woah, hey!”

  “We’re all innocent, we swear!”

  Putting it back away, Vertan shakily exhales and nods in acknowledgement.

  “Help spread the word,” he says to everyone. “If we want to survive.”

  *****

  The mammoth platform they stood upon moved diagonally downwards towards the heart of Base Seven where their pillar lies. The periodic pulses felt when above the surface come across stronger down here.

  A pattern has been discovered and strategized around. Every pulse had a chance of an anomalous presence. They never appeared outside of it. Each time this occurs, a consistent Daero reading across everyone is required to estimate its threat level. Anytime one got too out of hand, a time grenade was used to entrap it within a loop construct, allowing everyone else to raze it from the outside in.

  Sense was being made of the Abomination.

  The platform continued to rumble and lumber downwards into the abyss, the lights still surviving either flickering, emitting sparks, or dimming. The machinery of Base Seven seemed to groan in agony and exhaustion at its torturous ordeal, faithfully bringing its commanders down in spite of its injuries to the abomination.

  With a final clank, shutter, squeal and the hiss of steam, the Fifth Squad and the rest of the Third Platoon have arrived at the bottom floor of Base Seven. Throughout the underground complex, they could hear the mechanical echoes of the arrival of the other supplemental forces. Chatter continued through some local channels as a means to cope and steady the nerves, though some others have turned down the noise to bring at least some peace of mind. Virtually none could empty their head of the thought that their own self-perpetrated descent into hell was ironically their greatest shot at survival.

  Stepping down onto the floor, Vertan feels a slight relief that for once after the past several hours, his boots have touched dry, solid ground with no organs to slip over. The lights were still on, if not dimmed in most parts down here, though likely not for long. Before them lie the vast winding corridors that consist of Base Seven’s internal guts.

  Proceeding cautiously with their formation, they slowly made their way through. Since all of Thoma’s networks are offline, everyone each has to refer to a map displayed on one of the walls, and kept within their suit’s HUD at all times after taking a picture for their reference. Echoes of struggle, screams, and gunfire occasionally swept through the corridors, though communication between separate groups remained scattered and spotty with static.

  An aura of pure fear seemed to permeate the air.

  Arriving at the meters-thick door, entrance to the innards where the pillar would be, it was quickly realized that amongst the survivors, none had authorized access.

  Not that this would at all matter, as a hole had already been blasted clean through the entire barrier.

  Another pulse emanated through the ground, ceiling, and air. Raising their arms, they began searching for the next threat, should it appear.

  Alone in the shadows behind them, almost as though embedded in the background itself, was the figure of a person.

  Daero Counters were pulled out. Immediately, a very weak signal came back. A wave of relief encompasses the platoon.

  The person continues to stand there as dozens of guns stare them down.

  Rather not so suddenly, they took a step forwards, and began walking slowly. Somehow with a quiet, yet unnatural, and uncanny grace. It continued to move forwards concealed in the shadows, uninterrupted, soundless. Soulless.

  A normal person doesn’t move like that.

  A normal person shouldn’t move like that.

  But what’s so wrong about walking? Or rather, what makes this kind of walking so wrong?

  The guns continue to lock their aim at it.

  As the figure continued to move closer, the Daero readings began to become inconsistent from each other. Some continued to receive weak signals. Others gained much stronger, frantic readings. The Counters jumped back and forth, indecisive of their judgment, unable to—

  The figure suddenly lowers their stance, almost as though a trip, but holding themselves from an impossible angle.

  Slowly, it raises itself back up to a normal walking pace again, coming ever closer to the platoon.

  A shot rings out, and the figure disappears.

  Spooked and with their nerves shot, anxious fervor spread amongst the platoon. Vertan, with a heavy exhale, turns to look back at the wrecked door. What could possibly have—

  Very suddenly, what’s in front of him instantaneously changes.

  The door is no longer there.

  His HUD no longer tracks him as being in that room.

  He looks back around to his comrades. Their numbers had suddenly dwindled to half.

  In his confusion, he whirls around to face what was the door and now a wall, and finds that it has also now become a different wall.

  He whirls around again to find that more had simply disappeared, their numbers now reduced to a very small number of people.

  The corridors and halls had become long, twisted, mangled and contorted.

  A person embedded in a wall cries out from above them, that hallway facing upside-down and wrapping horizontally from theirs.

  The wreckage of a starfighter irrelevant to Thoma floats past, its pilot inside having long become a skeleton.

  The statistics for persons missing in action continued to tick up.