Hello again.
Yes, it is me. Raya. Or Prof. Or the woman currently calculating the exact velocity at which this dinner party is going to crash and burn into a fiery pile of social awkwardness.
But before we get to the screaming and the flying gravy, let us address the elephant in the room. Or rather, the miracle in the bottle.
Ginjang...
You saw what happened in the last chapter. Ragia drank the magical rice wine from Mars...
And poof!
The Krall DNA receded. The female form vanished. His penis returned in all its glorious, vein-popping tyranny.
Let us be honest with each other, shall we?
As a scientist, I find it... lazy. It feels like a Deus ex Machina written by a sci-fi novelist running on caffeine and a deadline, desperate to get his protagonist back into fighting shape without explaining the complex biochemistry involved.
"Oh, it's just a special fermentation process!"
Please.
From my data, the Krall DNA inside Ragia wasn't erased. It was locked. It is as if the alcohol acted as a cryogenic sealant, freezing the mutation in place. It is a temporary fix. A band-aid on a bullet hole.
But...
Humans love their band-aids, especially when they come with a high alcohol percentage.
I sigh. It is a long, heavy exhale that rattles the stem of my wine glass.
"Open," a soft voice whispers beside me.
I open my mouth obediently. A fork slides in, carrying a tender, spicy chunk of meat.
It is rendang. Leocrash rendang, to be precise, and it is being fed to me by... well, me.
My clone stands beside my chair, looking unusually modest. She is wearing a formal black dress that covers her from neck to knee. I know, it is disappointing. Usually, my clones are naked, efficient, and ready to be used as ergonomic furniture. But we are not on the Xeca. We are not in the lawless vacuum of space where I can conduct my experiments in the nude.
We are on Earth.
Specifically, we are in the dining hall of the Quarso Estate, and sitting at the head of the table, looking like a statue carved from nightmares and tungsten, is the host.
Liquida Quarso. The Supreme Commander of Earth Defense.
Capt's father.
If Capt's gaze makes women wet because their dopamine receptors are flooded with lust, then Liquida Quarso's gaze makes women wet because their bladder control fails from sheer terror. He is massive. He has the same square jaw as Capt, but without the humor. His eyes are not golden
They are the color of steel that has been used to beat a man to death. He has a mustache that looks like it could deflect a laser beam.
"So," Liquida rumbles. His voice vibrates the silverware on the table. It is a sound deeper than the Xeca's thrusters. "You are telling me, Ragia, that you have been parading your sister around the galaxy as your... Melito?"
Capt stops chewing. He is sitting on the Commander's right, looking small for the first time in his life. He swallows his food with a visible gulp.
"I didn't know, Dad!" Capt protests, waving his fork. "She lied on her application! She used her mom's last name! Kyllian! How was I supposed to know 'Arala Kyllian' was the result of your... unauthorized shore leave sixteen years ago?"
"It was not unauthorized," Liquida says, cutting his steak with surgical precision. "It was a tactical insertion."
"Tactical insertion?" Ragia chokes. "Is that what we are calling it now? You forgot to pull out, old man! And now I have a sister who makes weird noises, and tries to roleplay incest scenarios that turned out to be actual incest!"
I look across the table.
Private... is sitting there, completely oblivious to the fact that her lineage is being dissected like a frog in biology class. She is happily shoving a spoonful of pineapple pudding into her mouth. Her eyes are closed in pure bliss.
"Hama-hama pudding," she hums to herself, wiggling in her chair. "So soft... so wixi-wixi."
She has a smudge of yellow cream on her nose. She looks innocent. If you ignore the fact that she can summon a seven-meter Titan mech to crush skulls, she looks like a toddler.
"She has the Kyllian appetite," Liquida observes, watching Private with a look that might be affection, or might be indigestion. It is hard to tell. "And the Quarso stubbornness."
"She has the Quarso stupidity," Capt mutters, taking a swig of his wine.
"Watch your tongue, Boy," Liquida snaps. "Or I will activate the collar."
Capt flinches, touching the metal band around his ankle. "You are enjoying this too much."
"Discipline is the backbone of survival," Liquida states. He turns his terrifying gaze toward Vice, who is sitting next to Capt. She is sitting so straight I fear her spine might snap. She is wearing her dress uniform, perfectly pressed, but I can see a bead of sweat trickling down her temple.
"And you," Liquida says. "Iya, is it? The Vice Captain."
"Sir!" Vice barks, almost standing up before remembering she is eating. "Yes, Sir! Iya, Sir!"
"My son tells me you are competent," Liquida says. He looks her up and down. It is not a sexual look. It is an appraisal. He is checking her structural integrity. "He says you kept him alive when he decided to turn into a woman and hold court on Mars."
"I... I did my best, Sir," Vice stammers. Her face is flushed. "He is... a handful."
"He is a liability," Liquida corrects. "But he seems to listen to you."
"She is more than that, Dad," Capt interrupts.
He reaches out and grabs Vice's hand. He intertwines their fingers on top of the white tablecloth. It is a bold move. A territorial move.
"This is Iya," Capt announces, his voice gaining that swagger we all know and... tolerate. "And she is my fiancée."
And... clang!
That is the sound of Vice dropping her knife onto her plate.
The room goes silent.
I calculate the probability of Vice murdering Capt right here, right now. It is approximately 89%. Her face turns a shade of red that rivals a Krall's backside. Her eyes bulged.
"Fiancée?" Liquida raises an eyebrow. It looks like a drawbridge opening. "You intend to marry her?"
"I intend to breed with her," Capt grins, winking at Vice. "Legally. And repeatedly. She is going to bear the next generation of Quarsos. Stronger. Faster. And hopefully with better fashion sense than you."
"Ragia!" Vice hisses through gritted teeth. "I did not agree to this! You didn't ask me!"
"I am asking you now," Capt says, squeezing her hand. "In front of the Supreme Commander. You can't say no. It would be rude."
I watch Vice. I see the conflict in her eyes. I see the rage, yes. But beneath it? I see the sploosh. I see the dopamine spike. I see the way her thighs clamp together under the table. She wants it. She wants to be claimed. She wants the title almost as much as she wants his cock.
"We... will discuss the logistics later," Vice manages to say, looking down at her plate. But she doesn't pull her hand away.
"Acceptable," Liquida nods. "At least she has good posture. Better than that Wif you picked up."
"Hey!"
Across the table, Mommy looks up. She has a piece of apple pie halfway to her mouth. Her rabbit ears are twitching with indignation.
"My posture is excellent for my age," Mommy huffs. She feeds a piece of pie to Shorty, who is sitting on her lap because apparently, chairs are too mainstream for the Wif family dynamics. "And this pie... Commander, I must have the recipe. The crust is flaky, but it holds the moisture. It reminds me of the time I..."
"Mama, shh," Shorty whispers, her mouth full of apples. "Don't talk about moisture in front of the scary man."
"If you like the pie, take the chef," Liquida grunts. "He is annoying anyway."
Speaking of the chef... I mean... our Chef...
Oh... there is where the entropy increases.
At the far end of the long table, a war is brewing.
Chef... is glaring at her twin sister, Navi.
Navi is holding a fork and a knife. She is cutting a piece of the Leocrash rendang into a neat little square.
"What are you doing?" Chef asks. Her voice is low, dangerous. It is the voice she uses when someone overcooks a scallop.
"Eating?" Navi blinks innocently.
"With tools?" Chef hisses. "Tonix! This is rendang! It is a cultural heritage! It is a dish born of patience and spice! You do not stab it with cold metal! You respect it! You use your hands!"
"It's messy, Gin!" Navi argues, spearing the meat. "And the sauce stains my nails! We are in a mansion! Look at the chandelier! You can't eat with your hands under a chandelier!"
"You are insulting the meat!" Chef stands up, slamming her hands on the table. "The texture changes when you touch it! The heat of your fingers activates the oils in the spice paste! It is an intimate experience! You have to finger the meat, Tonix!"
"I am not fingering my dinner!" Navi yells back.
"Ladies," Liquida rumbles. "Sit down."
"She started it!" Chef points at Navi, ignoring the Supreme Commander of Earth Defense. "She is eating like a barbarian! A civilized barbarian!"
"I am eating like a human!" Navi retorts.
"You are eating like a tourist!"
Capt laughs. He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. He looks happy. Chaos is his natural habitat. He thrives in it.
"This is my squad, Dad," Capt says proudly. "Dysfunctional, loud, horny, and absolutely lethal."
"They are a circus," Liquida mutters. But I see it. A twitch in his mustache. A microscopic softening of his steel eyes. He is... amused.
I take another bite of the rendang, fed to me by my clone. The clone wipes a drop of sauce from my lip with a napkin.
"The flavor profile is exquisite," I note aloud. "The capsaicin triggers a pain response that the brain interprets as pleasure. Much like our current employment aboard the Xeca."
"Exactly, Prof," Capt raises his glass to me. "Pain and pleasure. The chaotic fanfare of our lives."
The moment is almost perfect. The tension, the absurdity, the sexual undercurrents vibrating between Vice and Ragia, the familial bickering. It is a slow-paced drama of the highest quality.
And then, the alarms scream.
It is not the polite chime of a dinner bell. It is the planetary defense siren. A sound that rips through the air, shattering the crystal glasses on the table.
"Warning," the automated system blares. "Atmospheric breach. Sector 4. Biological signature detected."
Liquida stands up. He doesn't rush. He simply rises, and his presence fills the room.
"Krall," he says.
"Here?" Vice gasps, jumping up and drawing her blaster from beneath her skirt. Yeah... she always carries it. It is her version of a garter belt. "On Earth? The orbital grid should have vaporized them!"
"They are tracking something," I state, my clone dissolving into shadow as I access my datapad. "Or someone."
I look at Capt.
He is clutching his glass so hard it shatters. Red wine... or maybe blood, drips onto the white tablecloth.
"Neptune," Capt whispers. His eyes darken. "I destroyed the nest. I killed the Queen's brood. They tracked my pheromones."
"Viper Class," I announce, reading the sensors. "And Centaurs. Heavy infantry. They are crashing the gate."
Then boom...
The front wall of the dining hall explodes.
Debris flies everywhere. Dust clouds the air.
And through the smoke, they come.
Beautiful, red-skinned nightmares.
The Krall.
A Centaur-type Krall, her lower body that of a massive, armored insectoid horse, crashes through the rubble. Her upper body is a voluptuous, naked woman with red skin and four arms, each wielding a plasma blade.
She screeches. It is a sound of pure hunger.
"Inquor!" she hisses. "Seed bearer! You owe us a harvest!"
Capt stands up. He wipes the wine from his hand. He looks at his father.
"Sorry about the wall, Dad," Capt grins, but it is a sharp, dangerous grin. "I'll pay for it out of my salary."
Liquida reaches under the table. He pulls out a massive, kinetic shotgun that looks like it belongs on a tank.
"No need," Liquida cranks the weapon. "I was planning to remodel anyway."
"Explorer 7!" Capt roars. "Dinner is over! Time to pay the bill!"
And...
Just like that, the slow burn ignites into an inferno.