Humanity is missing, luckily I have billions of clones

Earth battlefield.

Tom watched his opponent's movements with absolute concentration. The data streams flooding his mind were a storm of numbers and signals—millions of satellites orbiting Earth like a metallic halo, each transmitting pulses of light and code. They maintained communication networks, mapped gravitational distortions, and most importantly, searched for the faintest signs of enemy activity.

Every transport launch, every warship docking for repairs, every supercomputing ship that left its berth, every batch of unmanned combat drones that deployed—nothing escaped him. Each thread of information was collected, parsed, and injected into the Goku Strategic AI, where trillions of computations whirled at lightspeed.

Each motion from the enemy was decomposed into millions of possible variations. Every variation birthed a corresponding countermeasure, which was checked and re-checked by Tom's collective intelligence. He felt the heavy drag of thought synchronization through his clone network—hundreds of millions of linked minds humming in unison, forming a human-machine brain that reached across the planet.

He could not afford a single misstep. This was the death-throes of an ancient civilization. If their counterattack succeeded, that civilization might be reborn. If it failed, they would vanish forever. Tom knew what kind of force desperation could awaken.

Even giving a hundred and twenty percent of his cognitive capacity, he sensed it was not enough. Somewhere within the vast probability tree, an unaccounted variable waited.

Time crept forward, every second stretching like wire drawn to breaking.

---

On the Bluetoth Fleet's flagship, the command deck glowed with cold light. General Harrier and his senior staff gathered around a panoramic display filled with red and blue vectors. Their eyes were ringed with exhaustion; their silvery-white scales had dulled to gray. Harrier had not slept for half a month, yet his pupils burned with grim determination.

"This is it," someone whispered. "No room for retreat."

The words needed no answer. Everyone already understood. This would be their final engagement—the battle that would decide if their civilization continued or was erased from the stars.

For this fight, no effort was excessive, no caution redundant.

The staff resumed their deduction cycle, feeding endless tactical scenarios into their simulators, when the hatch slid open and a young officer stumbled in. His breathing was ragged, scales slick with sweat.

"Report!" Harrier's voice cracked like a whip.

"Latest transmission from Second Planet, sir…" The officer's throat locked. "The Chief — is dead."

The words hit the room like a physical blow.

Harrier froze, disbelief flickering into horror. He lurched to his feet and seized the officer's collar. "The Chief? What happened?"

"A riot, General. A planet-wide riot…"

The recording projected above the table—cities ablaze, military outposts overrun, the Chief's security convoy engulfed in chaos. The sound cut out, but the imagery was enough. Harrier's knees buckled; he collapsed back into his chair.

"General! General!" voices called.

He blinked back to awareness moments later, chest heaving. Years of command instinct cut through the haze of shock. Only one truth mattered now: hesitation would kill them faster than the enemy.

He rasped, "Prepare to launch a full offensive."

"Sir? Supplies—"

"Forget supplies. Deploy now. All-out attack." His voice hardened with each word. "If we delay, morale collapses. When news spreads, they'll lose the will to fight. We strike before despair takes them."

The officers exchanged uncertain glances, then scattered to relay his command. Harrier forced his trembling hands to still. Memories of Chief Hevey flashed before him—mentor, symbol, the spine of their people. His chest ached, but grief could wait. Victory was the only redemption left.

If they could win this battle, the civilization might survive. Hevey's death would not be in vain.

"Yes… attack orders confirmed," someone said.

Harrier turned back to the tactical map—and froze. The projection did not show advancing formations. Instead, the icons of his fleets wavered, shifting erratically.

"Why aren't they moving toward the enemy line?" he demanded.

No one answered. A new feed appeared, showing his ships scattering like startled fish. Formations dissolved. Squadrons broke apart. Thousands of drives flared in retreat, fleeing from Earth instead of toward it.

A sick chill ran through Harrier. The infection of panic was spreading faster than any order could contain it. The news of the riots had already reached them. The will to fight had disintegrated.

He closed his eyes briefly. "It's over," he whispered.

Opening them again, he forced composure back into his voice. "I will take the flagship and charge the enemy defense line in ten minutes. Whoever wishes to come may stay. The rest—leave now."

Silence answered him. Crew members looked at one another, some weeping quietly, others saluting once before walking out. Ten minutes later, fewer than a thousand of the original three thousand remained.

"I order… attack."

The flagship's thrusters roared, tearing away from the chaos. It drove forward like a spear toward the azure planet. Sensors flared as a handful of nearby ships joined in—their captains unwilling to let their commander die alone. Far behind, scattered vessels turned back, compelled by honor or shame. Out of over three hundred thousand warships, barely five thousand rallied for a final, hopeless charge.

---

From orbit, Tom observed the sudden fragmentation of enemy formations.

Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool air of the command chamber. This battle would decide whether the Bluetoth Civilization lived or perished, and he knew their commanders were capable of anything. Every motion should have fit into a logical framework—a strategy, a deception, a feint—but this? This was chaos beyond prediction.

He reviewed every branch of his predictive model. None explained the enemy's behavior. His countless linked minds pulsed with agitation, processing at impossible speeds, yet the answer eluded him.

Why scatter their fleets? Why send a minority to charge head-on? Was this a decoy to lure his defenses into overextension? A suicide gambit to mask a deeper strike? What were they planning?

Within his mindscape, the synchronized thoughts of his clones rippled like disturbed water. Goku's supercomputing core screamed at full capacity, yet still could not classify the pattern.

For the first time in a long while, Tom felt uncertainty—something dangerously close to fear.

The charging flagship and its escorts were now within striking range of his defense perimeter. The anomaly remained unsolved. He exhaled once, slow and deliberate, then straightened.

Understanding could come later. Survival came first.

"Engage," he whispered. "Let's see what they intend."

The order transmitted across the clone network. The silence of orbit shattered as defensive platforms came alive.

The final clash had begun.