Hello there.
It is me Prof... or as my identification file says, Raya.
I assume you enjoyed the show in the previous chapter. I must admit that the physiological response of the Vice Captain to multiple stimuli is a fascinating subject of study. Her dopamine levels were off the charts. We were just getting ready for a second round of data collection, with Chef eager to test the limits of her own endurance, when reality decided to intervene.
And... the klaxon blared.
It wasn't the soft chime of a scheduled drill. It was the harsh, abrasive alarm that signaled immediate combat readiness.
"Damn it," Chef groaned, pulling her pants up. "Just when things were getting interesting."
Vice was already buttoning her tunic, her face shifting from post-coital bliss to professional rigidity in point four seconds. "Report to the bridge. Now."
We didn't argue. We ran.
When we arrived at the command center, Capt was standing before the main viewscreen. He looked serious. Well, as serious as a man who wears mismatched socks can look. Navi was at her console, her face pale.
"What is it?" Vice asked, stepping up beside Capt.
"That," Capt said, pointing at the screen.
Floating in the dark void of the sector was a ship. But it didn't look like a ship. It looked like the skeletal remains of a Leviathan whale, bleached white by cosmic radiation and twisted by some unknown force. It was huge, organic, and undeniably Krall.
"Designation Gyra," I said, stepping forward. My mind immediately began cataloging the structural weaknesses. "It is a troop transport. But it appears dormant. Thermal readings are negligible."
"It's a ghost ship," Navi whispered.
"Or a trap," Vice corrected. "We should vaporize it from a distance."
"No," Capt said. He turned to look at us. "Scans show a fluctuating energy signature in its core. It's not a standard reactor. It looks like a prototype Melios dampener. If we leave it, the Krall might come back for it. We need to destroy it from the inside to ensure the tech doesn't survive."
"I will assemble the team," Vice said.
"Negative," Capt shook his head. "Just me and Prof."
Vice blinked. "Excuse me? That is a suicide mission. You need backup. You need firepower."
"I need precision," Capt replied. His eyes met mine. "Prof is the only one who can rig the core to overload without triggering the dampener. And her clones are the most efficient way to cover ground if we run into trouble. A full squad would just attract attention."
Vice looked like she wanted to argue. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked at me. "Bring him back in one piece, Prof. Or I will use you for target practice."
"Understood," I nodded.
So, here we are.
Capt and I are currently squeezed into a two-person infiltration pod, hurtling through space toward the skeletal nightmare. The interior of the pod smells of recycled air and Capt's cologne. It is a strangely comforting scent.
"You okay, Prof?" Capt asked. He was checking his blaster charge.
"My heart rate is elevated," I admitted. "But that is a normal physiological response to imminent danger. Statistically, our chances of success are sixty-four percent."
"Never tell me the odds," Capt grinned. "I prefer to make my own luck."
We docked with the Gyra silently. The airlock hissed open, revealing a dark, ribbed corridor that looked more like an esophagus than a hallway. The air was cold and smelled of ammonia and rotting meat.
"Stay close," Capt whispered.
We moved deeper into the ship. My scanner was picking up faint biosignals. Thousands of them.
"Capt," I whispered, looking at the readings. "We are not alone."
We turned a corner and froze.
The central chamber was lined with rows of translucent sacs hanging from the ceiling. Inside each sac was a curled-up figure. They were Krall, but not the warrior caste we were used to. These had large, fragile wings wrapped around their bodies.
"Butterfly Type," I murmured. "Scouts. Highly venomous. And they hunt in swarms."
Capt stepped forward carefully. "Let's plant the bomb and get out before they wake up."
Of course, the universe has a sense of humor.
Capt's boot landed on a patch of organic slime. It squelched. Loudly.
A ripple went through the chamber. One by one, the sacs began to pulse. A low, buzzing sound filled the air, growing louder by the second.
"Run!" Capt yelled.
We sprinted toward the core room. Behind us, I heard the tearing of membranes and the screech of a thousand waking nightmares.
We burst into the core room and Capt sealed the door. He jammed the locking mechanism with a metal bar he found on the floor.
"That won't hold them for long," I said, already moving to the control console. My fingers flew over the alien interface. "I need five minutes to bypass the safety protocols."
The door buckled. A claw punched through the metal.
"We don't have five minutes," Capt said. He looked at the door, then at me. "We need to clear a path back to the pod. There are too many of them."
"I can create a diversion," I said. "But my limit is eight clones. Against a swarm of that magnitude, they will be overwhelmed in thirty seconds."
"What if we had twenty?" Capt asked. "Twenty of you. And twenty of me."
I paused. "That is theoretically possible. But my Melios reserves are currently at forty percent. To sustain that number of tangible constructs..."
"We need a Felt," Capt finished my sentence.
I looked at him. We were trapped in a small, dimly lit room inside a dead alien ship, with a horde of monsters trying to break in.
"The adrenaline levels in my blood are currently conducive to heightened sexual response," I stated. "However, the environment is suboptimal."
"We don't need a bed, Prof," Capt walked over to me. He dropped his blaster on the console. "We just need a connection."
He was right.
Logic dictated that survival required maximum power output. Maximum power output required Melios. Melios required sperm.
Felt...