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Wrathin woke from meditation mode to the sound of his alarm. The peace and logic of the interface slipped through his system, soothing the fiery emotions that clouded his program.
Today's upload worked slowly to pacify the emotions. Some days were like that. Maintaining emotional stability continued to be difficult for him.
For many of the Rhimodians.
This illogical war stimulated their emotions more than anything thus far.
Master System uploaded new programming whenever a Rhimodian shut down into meditation mode. It allowed for system-wide updates, repairs, and replenishment of the nanites that kept the cyborgs healed and functioning.
As he shifted, the ports on the forearm gauntlets released their connecting wires to the meditation pad.
The visible part of the tech enveloped his skin, wrapping around his forearm like a piece of armor. It allowed him to communicate, as well as having other tech resources. All Rhimodians wore the liquid metal component on their forearms. The tech saved their lives generations before. Now it was a tool. One that kept them protected and armed.
And protected their worlds.
Still, it did not stop the wars.
The programming informed him it was time to head to his next task.
Ending the war.
A Terran Empire ship approached, containing the Ambassador visiting to discuss a peaceful resolution to the war.
The ship would arrive with the four Terran escort ships. They would meet the squadron of five Rhimodian vessels, and together both sets of battle ships would escort the Ambassador to the Rhimodian main world, Sol-3.
The Rhimodian worlds were moons around a giant gas planet named Sol. Sol-3 supported most of the Rhimodian settlements. The other four Sol moons contained resources the Rhimodians worked. One had dense vegetation. One was rugged desert with mountains. One had more tempered climates suitable for farming. The last was frozen tundra, where the minerals used in the Rhimodian tech were mined.
It allowed them to survive. Thrive? Not since the war started.
Hence the reason they wanted peace with the Terran Empire.
Their people were fading away.
When they’d been searching for a new world several generations ago, one of the requirements was reliable mineral supply.
Sol was the first they’d found that had all that they needed. The moons, while one-fifth the size of a standard humanoid planet, were spread out enough and allowed the Rhimodians to find their way again.
They used what they had well. For it was all they had.
And they would not yield. Not for the Terrans, not for anyone. They had lost too much already. They would not lose everything again.
He tapped his other arm. The bodysuit started to form, covering his bare skin. Lysteel, a liquid polymer-metal, oozed out from the embedded nine joints and covered his body from neck to feet.
He pressed his ears, and the tech moved up, wrapping around his face and head, molding a headpiece. As everything sealed around him, he headed to the ships.
“Wrathin. Check one pressure.”
“Uniform sealed. Prepare for flight,” came the automated voice in his system. The suit was not alive; however, it was responsive when it was needed.
Master System always responded when needed.
Some of his fellow soldiers said their suits were very responsive and spoke to them often, Wrathin did not have that experience.
He preferred his suit to be quiet.
He stepped into the lift, and in a moment, the compartment zoomed him to the ports.
