Welcome to my laboratory.
Please, do not touch anything. That vial you are eyeing contains a highly volatile acid derived from the stomach lining of a Krall Queen. If you drop it, it will dissolve not only your foot but also the floor, the hull, and likely my patience.
Hey, it's me Raya again..
You are here for the data, I assume? Or perhaps you are here for the spectacle. Humans are voyeuristic by nature. You crave the visual input of reproduction without the biological consequences.
Well, today you get both.
"Prof... I can't... there are too many..."
That whimpering sound is Shorty.
She is currently pinned to my examination table, her small, pale body completely obscured by... well, me.
Or rather, eight versions of me.
"Adjusting parameters," I state calmly.
I am standing... yeah... the original me, by the console, monitoring the telemetry. But I am also on the table. I am also holding Shorty's legs. I am also the one currently driving an Irita deep into her anal cavity.
It is a gangbang. That is the crude term.
Scientifically speaking, it is a multi-vector sensory overload experiment designed to test the elasticity of the Wif physiology and the neural feedback loops of the Alumos hive mind.
"Prof!" Shorty screams, her head thrashing against the metal surface. "It's too deep! The clone... she is hitting my... ah!"
"Relax, Shorty," one of my clones whispers in her ear. "Accept the intrusion. Let it stimulate your prostate equivalent."
My clones are naked, their tall, lithe bodies glistening under the harsh laboratory lights. Each one possesses an erect Irita... yeah, the Alumos clitoris that mimics the phallus in both form and function. It is a biological marvel, really. No need for strap-ons when evolution provides the tools.
"Why..." Shorty gasps as another clone positions herself over Shorty's face, lowering her wet, throbbing member toward the medic's mouth. "Why are we doing this... without him?"
I pause my calculations.
That is the variable, isn't it? The missing integer in the equation.
Capt...
"Because," I say, my voice echoing slightly as two of my clones speak in unison with me. "He is currently unavailable."
I look at the sample jar sitting on the desk next to me. It contains a small amount of seminal fluid Capt's fluid. It glows faintly, a swirling nebula of gold and white.
"The sample confirms it," I explain to you, ignoring the wet, slapping sounds of my clones ravaging the small medic. "His genetic structure is degrading."
"Degrading?" Short6 chokes out.
She takes the clone's Irita into her mouth, gagging slightly before finding her rhythm. She is a natural, even when overwhelmed.
"The wound to his cardiac organ triggered a systemic failure," I continue, typing on the holographic keyboard. "His Inquor cells are consuming themselves to keep his heart beating. He is cannibalizing his own life force."
On the table, the scene is a chaotic masterpiece of flesh.
One clone is thrusting into Shorty's vagina. Another is in her anus. A third is feeding her mouth. Two more are stimulating her nipples with their tongues. The remaining three are entangling their limbs with the active ones, creating a biomass of pleasure.
I feel it all.
I feel the tightness of Shorty's sphincter. I feel the wet heat of her throat. I feel the softness of her breasts.
It is intoxicating.
"Ah... ah... Prof!" Shorty moans, her eyes rolling back. "I'm... I'm going to break!"
"You will not break," I assure her. "Wif physiology is remarkably resilient. You are merely expanding."
But my mind is not on the pleasure. It is on the data.
"The transformation," I say loud enough to be heard over the smacking of skin. "It is accelerating. And the duration is extending."
"Twenty hours," Shorty garbles around the flesh in her mouth. She pulls back, a string of saliva connecting her to the clone. "He was a girl for twenty hours yesterday."
"Correct," I nod. "The female form requires less energy to maintain. His body is defaulting to the state of least resistance. If this trend continues..."
I stop.
The clone inside Shorty's anus hits a nerve bundle. I gasp, the sensation shooting straight to my own brain.
"Oh... that is... statistically significant," I murmur.
"Prof!" Shorty cries out. "I can't take it anymore! I need to cum! Let me cum!"
"Not yet," I command. "We must synchronize."
I walk over to the table. The clones part like a sea of pale limbs to let me through.
I look down at Shorty. She looks wrecked. Beautifully, scientifically wrecked. Her fur is matted with sweat. Her rabbit ears are drooping. Her body is flushed a deep, unhealthy pink.
"He might not wake up next time, Shorty," I whisper.
Shorty freezes. Her hips stop bucking. She looks up at me with tear-filled eyes.
"Don't say that," she sobs. "I healed him. I used the Remido."
"You patched the tire," I say clinically. "But the engine is blown."
I reach out and stroke her cheek.
"We need a contingency plan," I say. "We need to prepare for a reality where the variable Capt equals zero."
Shorty shakes her head violently. "No! He is the Inquor! He is the hero!"
"Heroes die," I state. "Data persists."
I lean down. My clones mirror my movement.
"Now," I whisper. "Release."
I give the mental command.
All eight clones thrust simultaneously. Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.
"Aaah...!"
Shorty's scream is not one of pleasure. It is a scream of grief disguised as ecstasy.
She clamps down on every intrusion. Her body spasms. She squirts, a fountain of clear fluid erupting from her, washing over the clones, soaking the table.
I feel the wave of her orgasm crash into my collective consciousness. It is heavy. It tastes of vanilla and despair.
My clones groan in unison. We do not ejaculate... er... we do not waste precious biological material on a non-procreative act, but the phantom sensation of release shudders through all nine of us.
The room falls silent, save for the hum of the ventilation and Shorty's ragged breathing.
I dismiss the clones.
They shimmer and fade into particles of shadow, reintegrating into my body. The sudden influx of returned sensory data makes me stagger. I grab the edge of the table to steady myself.
Shorty lies there, alone now. She looks small. Empty.
She curls into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest. She is crying.
"He hurts, Prof," she whispers. "I can feel it. Even when we aren't touching. His chest... it hurts so much."
I walk back to my desk. I pick up the vial of sperm. I hold it up to the light. It swirls sluggishly. Even his cells are tired.
"I know," I say softly.
I look at you.
You are uncomfortable now, aren't you? You came for the gangbang. You wanted to see the clones in action. You got what you wanted.
But you didn't expect the aftertaste.
That is the problem with science. It doesn't care about your feelings. It doesn't care about happy endings. It only cares about the truth.
And the truth is, we are seven women orbiting a dying star. And when he goes out... we will freeze in the dark.
"Prof?" Shorty asks from the table. She hasn't moved.
"Yes, Shorty?"
"Can we... can we do it again?"
I look at her. She is broken. She wants to be filled because the emptiness is too scary.
"We need to conserve energy," I say. Logic dictates I should say no.
But...
Then I look at the sample again. The fading gold.
"Five minutes," I say. "Hydrate first."
I turn off the recording.
We are done here. You have your data.
Go away.