I Am The Swarm

Under external stimuli, certain deeply embedded genetic fragments within the Fungal Carpet were activated.

These genes caused parts of the carpet to mutate, enabling them to break down otherwise indigestible toxins and convert them into “delicious nutrients.”

“Look at those patches! Don’t they seem like they’ve recovered a bit?” an observer suddenly asked in confusion.

“That’s impossible. The main components of those toxic substances are high molecular compounds formed through polymerization reactions. Even without their toxic effects, these compounds are nearly impossible to degrade. Unless they’re removed, this land is essentially rendered useless,” replied another crew member, who had a more thorough understanding of incendiary bombs.

“But I swear, those dark brown patches have definitely shrunk,” the observer insisted, confident in his keen eyesight and natural aptitude for distance measurements, which rarely led him astray.

Using both hands, he overlaid two images of the same area taken two hours apart. The black-brown toxic patches were marked with two distinct colors of dotted lines for comparison.

Once the images fully overlapped, it became evident that the toxic area had visibly shrunk since the earlier photo.

“Damn! It’s true! These things are actually recovering!” exclaimed the astonished crew member.

“Report this to the captain immediately!”

In wartime, the efficiency of the Riken was remarkable. Within two minutes, the Fleet Commanders of all three major fleets were informed. What they had hoped would be a game-changing new weapon had merely succeeded in temporarily slowing the Fungal Carpet’s growth.

Time marched on, and two hours passed quietly.

“Report, Commander! We’ve carefully analyzed and compared the previous footage and conducted two additional hours of observation. Regrettably, the Fungal Carpet is indeed regenerating—and at an increasing speed. At this rate, it might fully recover to its previous size within another two hours.”

Hearing this, Hamis wore a grim expression. It was now clear that the purple-gray tissue was not only resistant to extreme temperatures but also possessed extraordinary decomposition capabilities.

It wasn’t just the toxins being broken down. The ground-based cannons, though covered by the carpet, were, according to external data, being rapidly dissolved.

These organisms had an exceptional capacity for digestion.

While the exact nature of their enemy remained unclear, it didn’t matter for now. When the Space Octopuses had attacked Planet Raze, many had been destroyed, leaving fragments of their bodies floating in orbit. Some of these fragments had already been retrieved.

Additionally, after eliminating much of the surface electromagnetic railgun fire, the Riken forces had extracted some samples from the planet’s surface.

The onboard research team was conducting urgent experiments and analyses. They were confident that they would soon uncover some answers. However, due to the lack of specialized research vessels in this operation, the available instruments aboard the warships were relatively rudimentary. Otherwise, they might have already identified what these organisms truly were.

The bombardment continued. While ordinary energy weapons could not completely annihilate the purple-gray patches of the Fungal Carpet, they did manage to slow its growth.

As the dominant species in their Star System, the Riken had not encountered an equal rival for a long time. Even internal conflicts, when they occurred, were relatively small in scale.

As a result, the troops gathered for this campaign consisted almost entirely of recruits with no real combat experience.

Under these circumstances, what better opportunity for training could they ask for? Although thousands of Mature bodies were still hidden in the hilly region, the rest of the Swarm had lost the ability to counterattack. Actual combat against such an opponent was vastly superior to mere simulated drills.

Fighter squadrons surrounding the hill region rotated in and out of the main battlefield, participating in the bombing campaign.

They practiced various attack maneuvers: diving for a strike followed by rapid ascents, maintaining distance while launching sustained fire, and so on. Time passed, with fighters returning periodically to the orbital fleet for refueling and minor repairs before rejoining the drills.

“What the hell is going on?!”

A ship’s recreational room had been repurposed into a crude, makeshift laboratory. A frustrated researcher stared at the scene playing out before him for the umpteenth time, letting out a cry of exasperation.

On the lab bench, a piece of purple-gray Fungal Carpet slowly dissolved into a viscous fluid, pooling across the table.

The Riken researchers, their eyes bloodshot from more than 70 sleepless hours, were at their breaking point. Whether their condition was due to exhaustion or frustration was unclear.

The Fleet Commanders of the three major fleets, the homeworld’s war command center, and a host of related personnel were all anxiously awaiting their results.

But the researchers weren’t just failing to deliver results—they were stuck at the very first step.

The scientists had discovered that the alien organisms consisted of two distinct components: a “normal” tissue structure and a mysterious “core”.

The normal tissue was just that—ordinary. It primarily contained nutrients, with some protective cells on the exterior. While these cells offered minor technological insights, they were only superficial due to differences in technological paradigms.

The real mystery lay in the core technology of these alien constructs: their bio-electromagnetic railguns, bio-plasma engines, biological fusion organs, and other incredible features. Each core was both an individual organ and part of an integrated system. Any attempt to probe their secrets triggered a chain reaction.

Simply attempting to extract cells from the core caused immediate self-destruction.

Despite employing every conceivable method, the researchers hit the same wall. Regardless of the tool or technique used to sample the core, the process inevitably triggered cellular collapse. Within moments, the once-intact tissue dissolved into a foul-smelling liquid devoid of any usable information.

Even extreme measures like rapid freezing—bringing the temperature close to absolute zero—failed to halt this self-destruction. The rationale was clear: these organisms had survived and thrived in the near-absolute-zero void of space between star systems. Low temperatures were simply not a viable deterrent.

“How is this even possible?” the researchers muttered to themselves.

Based on the organisms’ behavior, any damage—even the impact of a shell—triggered the same self-dissolution. Yet these creatures could traverse the void of space, engage in high-intensity combat, and withstand energy cannon fire!

This defied all logic.

Unless, of course, their cells had some form of embedded protection programming. But how did they distinguish between external conditions—deciding which attacks warranted defense and which required self-destruction? Could they possess a form of consciousness?

If so, every organ, perhaps even every cell, would need its own awareness. But how could that be possible?

Especially now that these organisms were dead. Even if they had once possessed consciousness, it should no longer exist.

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