For now, though, the ability to grow almost anything they needed aided them in a way nothing else could. They did not have to worry that they would be blockaded and starved by the Terran Empire. They could last indefinitely behind their shields if they had to. At least that was the current working theory.
Harbin wasn’t too sure.
While he was skeptical about the talk of peace with the Terran Empire—that failed once, what would happen this time? — Something needed to be done to stop the death of his people.
Their population was dwindling, and with no ability to replenish it, it seemed the Terran Empire may win the war, if only by default.
Harbin didn’t think the Rhimodians couldwinagainst the Terran Empire. Terrans were infinitely larger and had more resources with an empire that spanned several sectors.
But until the Rhimodians had another option, they would fight for this system that they had terraformed and turned into a new home. It was the only home most of the Rhimodians knew.
Harbin was of an older generation of cyborgs. He remembered the previous home with the makers, but it was imperfect. It was a child’s memory when they were leaving and looking for a home.
He remembered the journey.
But the previous world? Very little.
Mostly just images that reminded him they were not native to Sol and that their technology truly wasn’t their own. They’d all been built by the makers on Orlicia.
Created.
Crafted.
Experimented on.
Whatever the wording, it meant the same thing. The Orlicians took the Rhimodians and manipulated their genetics to create cyborgs. They were implanted with lysteel and nanites to maintain the systems. And from there, the Rhimodians developed into thinking machines.
Something the Orlicians had not expected. Built for strength and obedience, the Rhimodians were not supposed to be anything more than soldiers and laborers. Whatever the Orlicians needed.
In other words, they’d made their own slaves.
And when the Rhimodians figured it out, they fled, taking as many of their people—born and still embryonic—with them. Though the maker’s genetic toys were probably not going to live much longer if this war did not come to an end.
Harbin glanced at the number of fighters on the landing pad.
There weren’t enough.
Not nearly enough, by his estimation.
They needed five per squad to create their large dragon-class fighters. From his quick count, there were only forty on the pad. Other pads stored more, but each typically held sixty, yet only forty were here.
Some were in orbit, ready to be deployed. However, it still did not negate the lack of fighters.
Those missing fighters represented missing Rhimodians.
Some were dead.
Others had disappeared.
It was believed that the Terrans had some of their people as war criminals, they called them. Likely they were experimented on, and the Terrans tried to remove their technology.
Ironic, since the Rhimodians would have likely been willing to share their technology with the Terrans before the war if they had been nice about getting new neighbors.
A clank of metal made Harbin turn.
Two cyborgs worked on the systems, testing the shifting abilities of the fighters. Wings were disconnecting and reconnecting, melting and reforming as the techs worked on the morphing.
The ships were being inspected and reinforced. They were designed to take on whatever form needed to survive in a circumstance. However, regular maintenance was required to keep them functioning properly. The wings could move, wrap around the ship for additional shielding, narrow the vessel as needed, widen it, whatever necessary for survival.
