Grace had been staring at the same data set for nearly an hour, not because it was unclear, but because it refused to behave the way it should.
The readings on her screen showed a dense web of bioelectrical signals running through the soil beneath Hell's Gate, branching and reconnecting like a living nervous system. Every time the construction teams cleared a section of ground, the signals weakened, sometimes almost vanishing entirely. But within hours, they returned, stronger and more concentrated than before. Roots pushed upward through packed earth. Vines crawled across scorched ground. Spores bloomed in places where there should have been nothing but ash and exposed stone.
It was not random growth.
It was almost coordinated.
Grace leaned back slightly, rubbing at her temple as she stared through the reinforced glass of the research module. Outside, the forest pressed closer than it had the day before. Thick tendrils of plant life crept toward the perimeter fence, leaves unfurling slowly, deliberately, as though testing the space between themselves and the metal barrier.
It was almost patient.
Then fire answered it.
A squad of marines moved along the outer wall, heavy flamers sweeping back and forth in controlled arcs. The plants shrivelled instantly, blackening and curling as heat washed over them. The smell reached even the sealed lab, burnt sap and ozone mixing with something sharper underneath that made Grace's stomach turn.
She clenched her jaw.
She understood containment. She understood security. What she did not understand was the complete refusal to acknowledge what was happening in front of them.
"Reactive growth again," one of the xenobiologists muttered from behind her. "That's the fourth time this week."
Grace didn't turn. "It's not reactive," she said flatly. "It's responsive. There's a difference."
She stood and pulled her mask into place, the familiar seal locking with a faint hiss. The airlock cycled as she stepped out of the module, and the noise of the compound hit her immediately. Engines roared. Metal clanged. Voices shouted coordinates and warnings. Hell's Gate was expanding, whether Pandora liked it or not.
Grace moved carefully through the construction site, stepping around power cables and half-laid foundations. Bulldozers assembled from orbital parts idled nearby, their massive treads chewing into soil that had only recently been alive. AMP suits stalked past her, each step heavy enough to send small vibrations through the ground.
Then she saw it.
The Valkyrie sat on the landing pad, engines cooling, its cargo ramp fully lowered. Suspended beneath a crane was a massive rectangular object, matte black and industrial, easily the size of a small building. It swayed slightly as it was guided toward a reinforced platform, cables taut and humming under the strain.
Grace stopped walking.
"What is that?" she asked the nearest tech.
The man barely looked up from his console. "The new mega printer."
She frowned. "That's not a standard printer. Why is it so large?"
He shrugged. "It's not standard anything. Code name's the Grinder."
The name settled badly in her chest.
Grace watched as the crane lowered the machine into place. Its surface was scarred with heat marks and layered warning labels. Panels were thick, reinforced well beyond what was necessary for simple fabrication. Heavy-duty power lines were already being run toward it as engineers shouted measurements and clearance checks.
"What does it print?" Grace asked.
"Whatever Parker needs," the tech replied. "Bulldozer parts. Structural plating. Ammo casings. Explosives."
Her stomach tightened. "From what feedstock?"
The man nodded toward a convoy of AMP suits moving in from the pad, each carrying sealed containers marked with hazard symbols. "Raw unobtanium blocks."
Grace turned back just as the machine powered up.
A low hum rolled across the compound, deep enough to feel through the soles of her boots. Indicator lights flickered along its sides, shifting from red to amber.
The Grinder awoke.
A section of the machine slid open, revealing mechanical arms that moved with unsettling precision. Moments later, a reinforced crate emerged from the output port and dropped onto a conveyor.
Grace didn't need to open it to know what was inside.
Explosives.
Crate after crate followed, identical in size and shape. Others came next, parts for additional bulldozers, reinforcement frames, ammunition components. The speed was what unsettled her most. The machine barely paused between outputs.
Within seconds, it had already produced five boxes of mining-grade Daisy Cutters.
Grace watched as several techs shouted for AMP drivers to clear the output zone. The suits moved in quickly, lifting the crates away before the printer even slowed. The Grinder paused for barely a second before three separate sections opened along its side, revealing internal structures like a machine splitting its own armour.
A high-pitched whine filled the air.
Then a full bulldozer track materialised, sliding from the conveyor and hitting the ground with a heavy, resounding thud. Dust kicked up around it as the machinery continued without interruption.
Grace stepped closer, unease settling into something colder.
Near the control panel, Quaritch stood with his arms folded. She watched as he handed an old, worn flash drive to one of the technicians. The tech inserted it into the console, and a holographic projection flickered to life above the panel.
A C-21 Dragon gunship rotated slowly in mid-air.
Below it, a timer appeared, estimating completion.
The system registered the new input, recalibrating instantly. The Grinder's internal systems adjusted, the hum deepening as it began breaking down material at an even faster rate.
Quaritch smiled.
Grace felt the weight of the moment settle over her.
This was no longer preparation.
It was an escalation.
Behind the walls, the forest pressed closer again, roots creeping forward even as flames drove them back. Pandora did not retreat. It adapted. And humanity will meet that adaptation with greater firepower.