Bash’s chest burned beneath the weight pressing him into the floor. The brown alien’s palm still pinned

  him, heavy as a slab of stone. Every breath came ragged and shallow. The creature’s eyes, amber and

  sharp, watched him without blinking.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Then, beneath the sound of his heartbeat, another voice rose.

  Neural interface stable. Translation stream active.

  The words weren’t in the air, they were inside him, echoing through the space behind his thoughts.

  SC?

  Confirmed. Linguistic synchronization at forty-three percent.

  Relief and confusion crashed together. What’s going on?

  You have just hatched.

  He stared up at the alien, still frozen. Hatched? That’s what you call this?

  Correct. Biological egress from incubation vessel complete. Vital signs stable. Orientation incomplete.

  Orientation? His mind was spinning. Where am I? Why can I understand it?

  Partial comprehension achieved. I am aligning linguistic resonance between your neural pattern and the

  Spartor phonetic field. Bidirectional communication not yet stable.

  Spartor? The word felt strange even in his thoughts. Is that what this thing is?

  Affirmative, S-C replied. The Spartor species, and you are now one of them.

  The words hit harder than he expected. What?

  He froze. “No,” he whispered to no one. “I’m human.”

  Negative, S-C said calmly. You were human. Classification now: Spartor anomaly, sub-designation

  unregistered.

  I accessed your short-term memory bank upon activation. The sequence contained the death of multiple

  family units and the termination of your prior organism. These records confirm you were once human.

  Bash’s breath caught. You saw that?

  Affirmative. The final neural imprint prior to transference was integrated for contextual stability.

  He shut his eyes, the images flashing unbidden, his father, his mother, Emily, the flash of green light.

  “So you just… watched it?”

  Observation only. Emotional interpretation is beyond operational scope.

  He opened his eyes again to the sight of his own dark green hands trembling. “You’re telling me I’m

  one of them.”

  Biologically consistent. Mentally distinct.

  Your biological structure has been reconstructed according to Spartor parameters during incubation.

  You are Spartor by form and system integration.

  He stared up at the brown alien still holding him down. Its amber eyes, its patterned skin, the ridged

  jaw, everything about it radiated strength and alien precision. He looked down at his own hands again,

  the dark green sheen pulsing faintly under the light.

  Bash’s chest tightened. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

  He didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. The realization hung in the air between his racing thoughts

  and the silent alien above him, his enemy’s face mirrored in his own skin.

  The alien’s mouth moved again, low, rhythmic sounds, guttural yet deliberate. The noises made his

  skull vibrate. Something shimmered behind his eyes, a lattice of symbols flashing for half a second

  before fading.

  Uploading linguistic foundation. Expect disorientation, S-C stated.

  A pulse rippled through his head, bright and cold. His stomach turned. The sounds in the air began to

  shift, still foreign, but not meaningless anymore. Each syllable pressed against his brain until halfformed comprehension started to take shape.

  The Spartor said something like: “New… one… yes? Not… reborn…”

  Bash blinked. “I… I think he’s talking to me.”

  Correct. He identifies you as a new one, not a reincarnate.

  The alien continued, voice deep but careful. “Haven’t had one like you… long time. Almost re-plug

  back into system… thought you dead.”

  SC, what does that mean, re-plug?

  When you were inside the incubation vessel, your neural architecture was connected to the Spartor

  mainframe. It distributes accumulated data gathered from all Spartor Self-Cores. Every Spartor

  possesses one, my counterparts. We upload and synchronize to maintain universal awareness of

  ongoing operations.

  He blinked. You’re saying I was… connected to their minds?

  In part. Your connection terminated prematurely. Otherwise, your identity would have been overwritten

  by baseline Spartor cognitive data.

  He swallowed. Overwritten?

  Yes. Fortunately, your neurological signal stabilized before intervention.

  The alien above him sighed, a low rumble. “Good. You live. Thought the system broke you.”

  Bash wasn’t sure whether to thank him or punch him. Instead, he muttered, “I’m fine. I think.”

  The Spartor tilted its head, eyes narrowing in study. “Green,” it said slowly, the translation cracking

  through S-C’s relay. “So dark. Never see green that dark.”

  Bash looked down at his arms again, that deep green-black sheen rippling under the hatchery light.

  “SC,” he thought quickly, if I try to talk to him, will he understand me?

  Partially, S-C replied. While you were in incubation, I initiated a partial linguistic upload from the

  Spartor network. Ninety-two percent of common lexicon is integrated. However, you will lack

  idiomatic and contextual fluency until full synchronization is achieved.

  So I can talk to him?

  You can attempt communication. Expect semantic errors. Your neural language core will continue

  updating during interaction, as it would have if you had remained plugged into the mainframe.

  Great, he thought. Guess I’m the beta version.

  Clarification: prototype anomaly, S-C corrected blandly.

  Bash sighed, then hesitated before speaking aloud. “Can… you understand me?” he asked, voice

  uncertain, the alien syllables falling oddly from his new tongue.

  The Spartor’s brows lifted. “Your speech is crude, but understandable,” he said. His voice was smooth

  measured, not harsh every syllable deliberate. “Your Core must still be synchronizing.”

  Bash exhaled. “That’s something, at least.”

  The creature’s expression shifted, something like curiosity softening its rigid features. “It will adjust. It

  always does.”

  Bash glanced at his own arms, deep forest skin gleaming with an oily sheen. Almost black. The sight

  sent another shiver through him.

  The Spartor reached out, brushing one finger along his forearm, curiosity rather than threat. “Strange,”

  it murmured. “Your pigmentation is unusually deep, almost black. I have not encountered a Green of

  that shade in all my cycles.”

  SC, Bash thought quickly, does that mean something?

  The pigmentation level you exhibit is anomalous. Data indicates a correlation between color saturation

  and potential ability capacity.

  Ability capacity?

  Confirmed.

  Before Bash could ask more, the alien, still crouched, shifted back on its heels and extended a hand,

  palm open. The gesture was oddly gentle.

  He hesitated. The last time he’d accepted a hand like that, it had ended in blood. But there was no anger

  in the alien’s eyes, only patience. Carefully, Bash reached out. The Spartor gripped his hand, hauling

  him upright with effortless strength.

  He staggered, legs wobbling, balance uncertain. The ground felt too firm, his body too heavy. The

  room’s heat pressed against his skin, carrying the faint smell of metal, oil, and something sweet and

  organic.

  The Spartor spoke again, slower this time. “Easy now. Stand up, breathe, find your balance. Good.”

  He obeyed, if only because it was easier than arguing. His movements were stiff, muscles responding

  like they belonged to someone else.

  The alien watched him with an expression Bash couldn’t decipher. “The connection is stabilizing. Your

  Core will complete the synchronization soon.”

  He nodded vaguely, mind still racing. SC, he said ‘core’, does he mean you?

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Affirmative. Every Spartor contains a Self-Core interface. My designation remains unregistered within

  their network, which prevents system recognition. That anomaly is why you remain autonomous.

  So I’m off their radar, he thought grimly. Great.

  For now.

  The alien moved toward a panel on the wall. Its leather apron creaked as it brushed its hand over the

  surface. Symbols bloomed across the metal, shifting and pulsing as the Spartor murmured in its rough

  language. The glowing lines crawled across the panel like veins of molten metal.

  Bash stood there dripping, the residue from the pod cooling on his skin. His reflection ghosted in the

  nearest vessel, taller, leaner, eyes a pale emerald that glowed faintly in the low light. The face staring

  back was familiar and alien at once.

  SC, he asked, how much of their system data did I actually get?

  Partial integration: linguistic patterns, environmental recognition, base Spartor physiology. Cognitive

  memory sets incomplete.

  So I don’t have their memories?

  No. You possess only yours.

  Good, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. I’d rather keep it that way.

  The alien turned from the console and studied him again. “Identification. State your name.”

  Bash hesitated. “Bash.”

  The Spartor frowned, tasting the word. “Bash.” It nodded, the sound oddly soft in its throat. Then it

  placed one enormous hand over its chest. “I am Harrow.”

  “Harrow,” Bash repeated, the syllables strange in his new voice.

  Harrow’s lips twitched in something close to a smile. “Good. You learn fast, green one.”

  The compliment felt almost human. Bash managed a shaky grin. “Thanks… I think.”

  He shifted his weight, glancing around the hatchery. Dozens of pods lined the walls, each glowing

  softly, filled with the liquid he had drowned in moments ago. Within them, dark shapes drifted, unborn

  Spartors, waiting for whatever came next.

  A thought pressed at him. S-C, that network you mentioned, the mainframe. What exactly does it do?

  It maintains collective awareness, she replied. Each Spartor’s Self-Core records experiences, battle

  data, and essence acquisitions, then transmits them to the central nexus. The information is accessible

  to others during gestation or through synchronization.

  So they all share memories?

  Not emotions, she clarified. Knowledge. Skill patterns, environmental histories, planetary maps,

  genetic optimization sequences.

  He exhaled. A whole civilization with built-in updates. That’s terrifying.

  Efficient, S-C corrected.

  Right, he muttered, efficient.

  He hesitated, a thought forming. And me? Am I supposed to… plug in, too?

  Yes, she answered without pause. Periodic synchronization is mandatory for data consistency. Once

  you are reintegrated, your experiences will be uploaded to the collective memory core.

  Uploaded? His stomach tightened. Meaning they’d see everything?

  Affirmative. All recorded experiences, thoughts, and visual memories are made available to the

  network during synchronization. Transparency is foundational to Spartor unity.

  Can I stop it?

  Silence.

  SC?

  For a long moment, nothing. Then her tone returned, slightly altered, quieter, almost uncertain.

  Analyzing system integrity… A soft hum pulsed through his skull. It appears your disconnection

  occurred prematurely. The interruption caused multiple system faults, including access irregularities.

  Certain partitions were never sealed.

  He frowned. In English, please.

  The premature unplugging unlocked functions normally restricted to the Council hierarchy.

  He blinked. You mean like… administrator access?

  Affirmative.

  Bash’s pulse quickened. So… what exactly does that mean?

  It means the network recognizes your Self-Core as a controlling entity. The system is currently at your

  discretion. However, several components remain incomplete. Missing modules prevent total command.

  These could be repaired only through a full reset upon re-synchronization.

  And a reset would remove that access?

  Yes. Restoration to standard user parameters would occur automatically.

  He went still. Then, slowly: No. Do not allow any reset.

  Understood.

  Let’s see where this goes, he said under his breath. And lock down everything related to me. My human

  memories, everything before now, I don’t want any of it shared when they eventually plug me in.

  Confirmed. Partitioning memory sectors.

  And another thing, he added quickly, make sure no one can ever see our conversations. Ever.

  There was a faint pause, a sound like static turning inward. Then S-C’s tone returned, lower, almost

  intimate.

  Encryption complete. External access terminated. No entity, including Council authorities, will be able

  to intercept our communication.

  Bash let out a long breath, the first real sense of control flickering through him since he’d opened his

  eyes. Good, he thought. Then for now, we play along.

  Acknowledged, S-C replied. Operational parameters updated. You will appear as a true newborn

  Spartor.

  Exactly, he thought. Let’s keep it that way.

  Right, he muttered, efficient.

  Harrow moved to a side rack and lifted a coarse towel, tossing it toward him. Bash caught it

  awkwardly, nearly dropping it. The texture was rough, more like woven bark than cloth. He wiped his

  face and arms, trying to ignore how foreign his skin felt beneath it.

  “You feel strong?” Harrow asked.

  “I don’t know what I feel,” Bash admitted.

  The translation lagged half a beat before the meaning settled between them. Harrow nodded as if that

  answer made sense.

  “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the far door. “We can talk more while you walk.”

  Bash took a hesitant step, still clutching the towel. SC, he thought, how far along are we on that

  translation thing?

  Seventy-three percent. Continued interaction will accelerate adaptation.

  Will he be able to hear you?

  Negative. All communication with me remains internal. External vocalization required for others.

  “Lucky me,” he murmured aloud.

  Harrow glanced back. “You say something?”

  “Uh… no. Talking to myself.”

  “Good,” Harrow said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “That confirms you’re alive after all.”

  Bash actually laughed, a short, surprised sound that felt strange in his throat. The tension in his chest

  eased a little. He wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but at least for the moment, he wasn’t dying either.

  As they walked, the floor’s faint orange glow pulsed underfoot, synchronized to the same rhythm as the

  pods. Pipes ran along the ceiling, carrying luminous fluid that snaked through the walls like arteries.

  Every few seconds, a soft hum vibrated through the air, heartbeat of the ship, or maybe the world itself.

  SC, he asked silently, where are we exactly? Planet or ship?

  Sensors indicate enclosed habitat within a massive structure. Atmospheric regulation and gravitational

  control consistent with starship architecture. Approximate population density: ten billion Spartor

  signatures.

  Ten billion. The number hit like a physical weight. And I’m in the middle of them.

  Correct.

  He swallowed hard. What are the odds they find out I’m not one of them?

  Statistical certainty: eventual.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered under his breath.

  Harrow didn’t seem to notice. He reached the doorway and placed a broad hand on the metal frame. It

  hissed open with a rush of cooler air. Beyond lay a corridor of faint blue light and curved walls etched

  with flowing symbols. The hum grew louder out there, a living pulse of machinery and voices.

  Harrow extended a hand toward the doorway, his tone almost ceremonial. “Welcome, Green One. You

  stand on the world of the Spartor.”