Date: 11:00 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The med bay’s sterile hum gave way to the clatter of steel as Sarah stepped into the armory, her cuts bandaged, the MRE settling like a rock in her gut. Kessler followed, her limp easing, rifle slung over her shoulder—reloaded now, a fresh mag scrounged from the dwindling stock. The psychic hum lingered—“Watch… wait…”—a quiet menace, the Tyranids biding their time beyond the mountain’s battered walls.

  Harrington stood at a workbench, overseeing soldiers sorting ammo crates—meager piles, 9mm rounds, a handful of grenades, one RPG rocket left. The air buzzed with purpose, F-22 jets still droning outside, their engines a lifeline against the bio-ships’ silence. He glanced up, nodding at Sarah and Kessler. “Good—geared up. We’ve got work.”

  “Stock?” Kessler asked, eyeing the crates.

  “Bare bones,” Harrington said, voice clipped. “East wing sent a drop—ammo, med kits, two hours back. Jets are holding the sky—bio-ships pulled to fifteen miles, regrouping. Seismic’s steady—Tyrant’s topside, Trygon deep, no moves yet.”

  Sarah adjusted her vest, the knife tucked in—its blade cleaned, sharp. “They’re planning,” she said, rubbing her temple, the hum a steady pulse—“Build…” “Something bigger—feels heavier.”

  “Matches recon,” Harrington replied, tapping a tablet—grainy drone feed, bio-ships pulsing, tendrils weaving something—spires, organic, rising from the valley. “Hive nodes—spawning more. We’ve got a window—fortify, strike if we can.”

  “Strike?” Kessler raised an eyebrow, leaning on the bench. “With what—eighteen guns and spit?”

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  “Jets,” he said. “East’s got a squadron—F-22s, maybe a bomber if we’re lucky. Hit the nodes, slow ‘em. Here—mines, traps, last RPG. Core’s our Alamo.”

  Sarah grabbed a mag—ten rounds—slamming it into her M16. “And me?”

  “Eyes,” Harrington said, meeting her gaze. “Your link’s a radar—tells us when they twitch. Rest’s on us.”

  She nodded, the hum twitching—“Soon…”—Jake’s echo gone, just the enemy now, a weight she’d carry. “I’ll know.”

  A soldier—Rodriguez, no relation to the colonel—rolled in a cart: mines, tripwires, a battered radio. “East wing’s live,” he said, handing Harrington the set. “General Pierce—wants a word.”

  Harrington took it, static crackling—“Cheyenne, this is Pierce, NORAD East. You’re holding?”

  “Barely,” Harrington replied. “Gate’s gone, core’s cracked—eighteen left, low ammo. Bio-ships building nodes—your jets saved us.”

  “Good,” Pierce’s voice cut through. “West’s lost—Denver’s ash, coast’s a hive. We’ve got fifty here, air wing, bunkers. Sending a drop—ammo, fuel, dusk. Jets’ll hit the nodes—hold ‘til then.”

  “Dusk,” Harrington muttered. “Nine hours—tight.”

  “All we’ve got,” Pierce said. “Tyranids don’t sleep—neither do we. Out.”

  The line cut, Harrington tossing the radio down. “Nine hours—mines on the hatch, traps in the tunnels. Kessler, lead it—Thompson, with her.”

  Kessler smirked, grabbing a mine. “Back to work, scribbler.”

  They moved, wiring the core’s entrance—tripwires taut, mines nestled in shadows. Sarah knelt, setting a charge, her hands steady despite the hum’s pulse—“Grow…”—the nodes outside, spawning, a clock ticking. Kessler tested a wire, nodding. “Solid—blow ‘em to hell if they breach.”

  “Again,” Sarah said, half a smile—the first in hours.

  Back in the core, soldiers hauled steel, civilians pitching in—stacking crates, passing tools. A girl—the one with the blanket—handed Sarah a water canteen, eyes wide but firm. “Thanks,” Sarah said, taking it, the kid nodding before darting off.

  Harrington watched, arms crossed. “They’re tougher than they look—us too.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, sipping, the hum a steady beat—“Ready…”—Tyranids waiting, but so were they. Nine hours to dusk—rearmed, reckoned, not broken yet.

  She gripped her rifle, Jake’s ghost a shadow she’d chase later. For now, Cheyenne stood.