Lyka Bloom
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Space Bimbo Story Part Five
🕑 Added 2025-04-14 23:01:22 +0000 UTCMore to come tomorrow!
The Gallifrey woke up. Outside, the silver hull was lit by a red sun, the light reflecting off the skin of the ship. The view screens inside showed that same sun, casting the interior in a hellish light. The crimson hue was broken by new banks of lights, winking eyes of yellow and green and blue. The Gallifrey was waking up.
At the center of the ship, five sleep pods were arranged like a star, the feet extending outward in radial spokes, the heads close together. More lights flickered at the base of these. The gel that kept the travelers in stasis heated and swirled around the bodies of the crew. The semisolid became liquid and drained from the pods while air was pumped inside. Just like the ship, its crew stirred. Life signs were measured, found acceptable, and there was a pause, an inhalation, as the computer determined that all was well and the next step was taken.
A thunk sound, then the pods slid down and up, raising from the dark metal, five chrysalises opening to spill their contents. The draining sound was thick and wet, like the sound of wet mud sucking at footsteps in a marsh. There was a rattling cough as the fluids drained away completely, leaving the crew exposed to the chill of Gallifrey’s atmosphere. It was warming to greet the crew, but the ship heated slowly, and the first pair of eyes that blinked awake winced against the nip in the air.
Reese Callahan swung his legs over the side of the sleep pods and rubbed his head, shaved for the trip. Stubble scratched his tender fingers, made sensitive by their time suspended in the sleep gel. It kept their bodies stable and their skin moisturized. Coming out of stasis was like waking after the best spa day Earth could offer. He flicked his hand into the pod, wiping it against the singlet he wore. Little good it did. The viscous gel covered him head to toe. He longed for a shower that would not come soon enough.
“Jesus wept,” Lyle said from his right. The navigator’s voice rattled with phlegm. Some of it was the gel that fed oxygen to his lungs while he slept. The stuff was miraculous and disgusting in equal measure.
Callahan cleared his throat. “Get to the console once you towel off. Confirm our position.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Right. G’morning. Now dry off and get to your station. If we’re where we should be, you get first shower.”
“You got it, Chief.”
Lyle was already standing, swiping the white towel from a nearby table. On it was the navigator’s watch and wedding ring. He dried and slipped the other items on, kissing his wedding band in a familiar appeal for luck. Then he was up and on his way to the navigator’s chair.
Callahan managed to stand as the others stirred. Peters, the ship doctor, who was busy checking his own pulse with a finger to his throat, nodding at Callahan in recognition. He was older, salt and pepper stubble atop his head. You could trace the receding hairline by the shadow of his retreating bristle.
“Everybody good, Doc?” Callahan prompted.
Peters gained his feet, checking a nearby terminal as the others clambered out of the pods. Callahan didn’t need the doctor to tell him that everyone was up and moving, but he had. A weakness for tweaking the nebbishy doctor. He couldn’t find much use for the man, or any doctor, on his time in space. The med teams, in his experience, ate up rations and sucked up oxygen and clucked their tongues and that was about it.
“All the levels are good, Chief,” Peters replied.
Callahan was up now, as were Wells, the ship’s engineer, and Briscoe, the pilot. Both were new to his command, like Peters. Lyle was the only holdover from previous assignments, and he trusted the navigator implicitly. That was the problem with missions assembled by the Foundation. It was all based on personality profiles and job assignments, not actual chemistry. That kind of sorting led to strange bedfellows, and long runs like this didn’t allow the chance to get to know one another. They spent so much time in stasis, everyone on board woke up next to a stranger.
Briscoe was making his way to the ship’s main console already. A good sign. Up and at ‘em and ready for work. Callahan approved. The engineer, on the other hand, was still standing beside his pod like a goddamn totem pole. Wells was big and tall, a side of beer crammed into the wet white singlet. His expression was stupid, flying in the face of the psych profile that said Wells was just shy of genius level on his practicals. Those tests paced him in the upper five percent.
“You with us, Wells?”
“Huh? Yeah, sorry, Chief. I feel hungover.”
“This your first time in stasis?” Callahan asked. He hadn’t bothered to check his previous flight logs. What did it matter? The Foundation selected the crew, and he had to live it, whether he approved it or not.
“No, sir. First time in stasis that long. I didn’t expect it to make such a difference.”
Callahan nodded. “Shake it off, Wells. I think we’re here.”
Lyle confirmed. “We are approaching orbit of Pancor,” the navigator announced, “and will be slipping into stable drift in about twenty minutes. We’ll circle three times before we set down. That should give everyone time to clean the goo out of their ears and get dressed. Chief says I have first shower. Suck it.”
“Good work,” Callahan said, but Lyle was already pushing away from the display to make his way to the shower. The gravity arm was spinning, one of the first things to happen before the crew was awakened from stasis, so the artificial gravity was in effect. Not quite as strong as Earth, but in the ballpark. Enough that the water spilled down instead of floating away. “Make it quick. We have four bodies to clean before we land.”
Less than thirty minutes and all five crew of The Gallifrey were washed and dressed. The outfitting was spartan and functional. Gray uniforms one could Velcro into, pockets at the waist and breast, shoes that slipped on and clung to the feet with rubber soles. Nothing heavy, nothing that would restrict movement. The environment suits, viros for short, would be awkward enough. Pancor boasted a breathable atmosphere, but they’d be wearing viros until Wells could confirm that it was clear. They weren’t here for vacation, after all. Something happened out here, and it was their job to find out what.
“Buckle up,” Callahan ordered. The crew found their seats and strapped in, thick metal buckles clicking as their bodies were secured to the cushioned seats.
Briscoe and Lyle were in the fore seats, manning the controls. While much of Gallifrey’s operations were automated, landing had to be monitored. That’s why the crew was awake now. The AI pilots could account for many variables, but the human brain was still the quickest and most accurate decision-making tool in the ‘verse. The atmosphere of Pancor was thick, and little sunlight found its way beneath the canopy. The ship shook as it descended. Wells’s knuckles were bled white, gripping the arms of his chair as Gallifrey shuddered and pitched.
“Don’t worry,” Callahan told the engineer, “the ride is rough, but the landing is smooth.”
That turned out to be a lie. The winds whipped hard across the face of Pancor. The pilot and navigator were engaged in quiet, tense discussion all the way down, madly punching buttons on the console until the ship pitched once more and set down. The crew lurched to the left as Gallifrey settled unevenly on the patch of ground nearest the settlement and then to the right, leveling and lowering as hydraulics whined and hissed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Pancor,” Briscoe grinned. He adopted the slow drawl of the commercial pilots, looking over his shoulder at the passengers. He gave Wells a wink, encouraging him to loosen his death grip on the seat’s armrests.
Callahan was unbuckled and up, stepping forward to the main console.
“Lift the shields and let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
Briscoe hit a button and thick metal plates slid up from equally thick plastishields. Grit buffeted the window as winds scoured the surface, collected loose dust,a nd whipped it at the ship. The landscape was gray and rocky, uneven and desolate. The rock formations were smooth, eroded into tubes by the wind and sand blasting them. It was as lifeless a rock as Callahan had seen.
The Foundation liked sending teams out here, small crews to set up environmental actuators. In a couple of decades, this might be a lush planet, overrun by flora and fauna seeded by the Foundation as it spread through the galaxy. Now, it was a lifeless hunk of rock that held no comforts for its human guests.
“Where are the shelters?” Callahan asked.
“Behind us,” Lyle answered. “Some weird reading coming off them. Heat and humidity are up in the shelter.”
“Any word?”
“Not a peep,” Lyle said.
Callahan nodded. “Wells, join Peters and Lyle. Suit up and let’s do a cursory scan of the structure. If there’s anyone alive in there, I want to find them.”
“Yes, sir,” the trio said in an uneven cadence.
Wells looked sick. Callahan flagged him as a potential problem, but they had a job to do. If the Foundation’s tests said the engineer could handle exploring an alien world, they must see something Callahan didn’t. The chief put a hand on Wells’s shoulder as he made his way to the back of the craft, toward the virosuits and airlock.
“You good?” he asked, quiet so as to keep his concern between the two of them.
“Yeah. Just another gig, right?”
“That’s right,” Callahan replied. “Just a gig. Get in there, scout it, come back. Easy as that. If you find bodies in there, and you might, keep your breathing slow and steady. We’ll come in after and help with the clean-up. For now, just see what’s in there.”
“Yes, sir,” the engineer said. There was gratitude in his voice. Callahan clapped his shoulder and released him. Maybe he’d be fine after all.
The virosuits took several minutes to assemble, like a puzzle that fit over appendages, buckled and snapped and sealed until the helmet sat atop the bulkier form of a human. There was a hiss as the suit pressurized and filled with recycled air. It tasted stale, but it was good and filtered any environmental hazards. Until the crew knew what they were up against, all precautions would be taken.
Finally, the three-man team was sealed inside their viros and the airlock closed behind them. Gallifrey was not meant for large crews, so even the three men standing abreast in the airlock filled the small space. They waited whil lights turned from red to yellow to green, and the hatch leading to the outside rose up, like the a container lid turned sideways.
Lyle led them out, moving down the metal ram extended from the rear of the craft. The ground was rocky, but they could see the squat buildings of the makeshift colony less than half a kilometer away. Even on foot over bad terrain they’d be there in half an hour.
“Lights are on,” Peters said, his voice tinny in the suit speakers. The crew remaining on board would hear them, too.
“How many souls again?” Wells asked.
”Thirty-six.” That was Callahan, reminding them all of the number of colonists expected to greet them.
”Not exactly rolling out the red carpet, are they?” Lyle was already moving toward the prefab buildings.
“You think they have some better rations in there?” Briscoe asked.
“Gotta be better than the shit onboard,” Lyle fired back.
“We shouldn’t eat anything inside,” Peters offered. He was behind Lyle, keeping pace while checking behind him every so often for Wells, who staggered and stumbled. The more intense gravity of Pancor was giving the slender man trouble in maintaining his balance. “Until we know what’s happened to the colonists, we don’t eat or drink anything inside. Hopefully, this is all a comm problem.”
”If it’s comms,” Wells asked, “why don’t we see anybody moving around? It’s mid-morning here. They should be working on the actuators. Right?”
”We’ll know soon enough,” Lyle said, ending the conversation. He wasn’t a man who allowed his imagination to run away with itself. Maybe it was the curse of a navigator. He believed in precision, and guessing was anything but precise.
The trio marched in an irregular line from the rear of Gallifrey to the first of the prefab buildings. It didn’t take long to manipulate the external door into opening for them. The atmosphere was, after all, breathable, even if no member of the crew would inhale the pure air of Pancor until Peters had a chance to scan the data from the installation and Callahan approved. There was also the matter of finding the residents of Pancor.
Lyle led the way. The entry point was where the virosuits for the colonists were kept, alongside some light arms for defense, carefully locked away so that only the mission commander and head of security could free the weapons from the metal cabinets. Lyle noted that none of the arms were missing from their slots according the the handwritten sign-outs dangling from a clipboard attached by red yarn. Not exactly high-tech. One realized very quickly when in one of the colonies that technological did not mean advantageous.
“Wells,” Callahan said in the squawking speakers of the viros, “head to the command core. Find out if they had to abandon the buildings. Surely somebody left a goddamn note.”
“Yes, sir.” Wells shot a look to Lyle, one that conveyed an uneasy courage through the plastic windows of their helmets.
“Peters,” Lyle offered, “why don’t you go with him? I’m going to check any logs from the shuttle bay, see if they’ve gone off-world and didn’t bother to tell anyone. Stay in touch. Until we know what happened here, we have to assume it was trouble.”
“Sure,” Peters agreed. He twisted his waist to see every detail of the industrial hallway between their entry and the first long corridor.
The installation was an asterisk stamped on the surface of Pancor, arms radiating from the central command hub. Those arms led to research rooms and living quarters and recreation rooms. Each arm was a hundred yards long, the central command a room large enough to house most of the thirty residents. No one lived extravagantly on Pancor, but there was elbow room and a sense of purpose. They were there to create a new world and would be paid handsomely for a five-year tour to get the actuators up and running. Even through the walls of the installation, Lyle heard the scratching wind, like skeletal fingers clawing to get in. He thought maybe enough of that sound would drive anyone crazy. In a flash, he decided that what they would find on Pancor were bodies.
Lyle parted ways with the other two and stumped toward the shuttle bay at the very end of one of the installation’s spokes. The metal echoed under his feet, enough give in the walkway to make his stride unsteady. Some of the doors were open as he passed, most of them the residential cubes. Not luxurious, but nice. Some were decorated with pictures of family. In one, a lonely soccer ball jostled as he passed, a game left unplayed.
The shuttle bay was a swollen tear at the end of one arm, and the entrance hissed open at his presence. No locks. Nobody turned their lights out on the way out.
The greater mystery sat in two rows of three - six shuttles to be used in the event of an emergency. They sat cool and unmoving as the sones outside, awaiting passengers that might never return.
Lyle found the activity log and scrolled through the sterile blue text. Nothing. The shuttles hadn’t been run for three months, the last time the engines were fired and the craft deployed to ensure they still worked and the batteries were holding a charge. Foundation protocol to keep the worst from happening. Better to have a shuttle and not need it, Lyle mused.
“Nobody left,” he informed the crew, hitting the green button to open comms in his suit. “Least not on a shuttle. If they abandoned the base, it was on foot.”
“Regroup at the hub,” Callahan ordered.
Lyle didn’t bother to reply. Bodies, he thought again, that’s what they’d find before this assignment was done. And maybe whatever killed them. The virosuit hid the shiver that shook him.
Wells heard the navigator enter, but he could no more turn away than the ship’s doctor. Peters was standing beside him, staring out the foot-thick windows of the command hub at the valley south of the station. The flight path of Gallifrey hid the valley on their approach. Peters had been the one to raise the shutters to the windstorm outside, curious to get a look at the surrounding area. Wells was sure that when the shutters rattled up they would see piles of bodies outside the window. He heard of an instance on a colony where the whole place had gone insane. The men and women and children left their virosuits behind and marched out into the poisonous atmosphere of their assigned planet and choked to death. While the atmosphere on Pancor was breathable, sanity could be lost quickly, and mad ideas spread like a fever.
”What the hell is that?” Lye asked, announcing his presence.
”You got me,” Peters said, “but I’d be willing to bet whatever it is, that’s where we’ll find the colonists.”
Wells did not speak. He could only stare at the three towers rising unevenly from the floor of the valley. Unlike the brown and grey surroundings, the dark grit blowing in the air, the mud-colored rocks littering the landscape, the towers were a bright, glistening pink. They were lumpy fingers reaching up from the dark ground, rounded at the tops, shining even without the light of a sun to pierce the clouds. There was a sense of motion, as if the pink walls slid and swirled.
“Have you told the Chief?” Lyla again.
“No,” Wells said, finally. “We’ve just been watching it. Does it look like it’s moving to you?”
”Yeah. Maybe.” Lyle had stopped looking, was typing at a keyboard on the control panel. Similar panels lined the pentagonal hub, the center of the room dominated by a table where the important decisions of the colony were made.
Wells envisioned the leaders of the colony around that table, arguing over whether to send an expedition to the pink towers. Had they all gone? Surely not. That would be irresponsible at least. Possibly criminal. And yet, where were they if not in the undulating towers?
”Here’s something,” Wells announced.
he’d joined Lyle, the two of them hard at work at their consoles. Wells felt no need to join them. He was an engineer, not there to hack the colony’s computers. Besides, the towers were so beautiful. He could feel a pull when he watched them, a whisper to come closer, to see. Yes, that was the idea inserted into his brain. Come and see.
“It says they sent a search party when they saw the things. Sounds like they popped up almost overnight. But the commanding officer, a woman called Dobson, she says they were small mounds. I guess they grew.”
They had to grow, Wells thought. How else would they house all the colonists? They had to be expanded, stretched up toward the hidden red sun.
Lyle moved close to Peters. “Does it say what happened?”
Peters was silent for a long minute, then said, “Not exactly. It says they sent three men. If you believe this, three women came back. The logs end shortly after a description of the women, and let’s call the descriptions inappropriate. They size of their breasts takes up a couple of paragraphs.”
“Women?” Lyle asked. “And not colonists.”
”Don’t think so. But who knows? The rest of this is barely comprehensible. Something about pink goo and then some pornographic descriptions of sex acts. But everything is misspelled and the grammar makes no sense. The best I can do is an entry from four months ago: ‘we r not rselves.’”
”Let’s head back,” Lyle suggested, but Wells knew by his tone it was more an order. “Get the Chief in on this. Send the logs to Gallifrey. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll send the Marines in to check those things out.”
Wells nearly groaned. Not Marines. Them. Him, in particular. he had to go, be inside. Come and see, it said, and he would obey.
Callahan read the message from Foundation for the third time, willing the words to change. They would not. The rest of the crew was in the fore of the ship while Callahan remained in his quarters, eyes squeezed shut. His head was pounding. Ever since they landed on the stupid rock, there was an itch at the back of his brain that made it difficult to focus. Pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead, he relieved the pressure enough to think.
Fine, he decided, they would follow orders and get the hell out. He would go. Whatever waited in the pink towers beyond the colony walls, he would go with his men. He stood, straightened his jumpsuit with a curt tig at the waist, and made his way to the other four crewmen.
“The Foundation wants us to check it out,” he told them. Was that a smile on Wells’s face? Of all the reactions, that was a surprise. The engineer was the most inexperienced of the bunch. Callahan would have predicted a quick denial. It made his decision to send him less fraught.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lyle countered.
“Good thing we aren’t paid to evaluate the quality of ideas from Foundation, then,” Callahan offered. Lyle grumbled but nodded.
“I’ll take Wells and Peters with me. Peters, make sure you have a kit. If we find the colonists in there, some may be in need of assistance. Wells, I want you to get us three rifles from the armory inside the colony. There could be a hostile presence. And I’m in a real shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later mood.”
“What about us?” Briscoe asked, thumbing in the direction of Lyle.
“If we don’t get back on this ship by 1400 hours, I want you to lift off and get the hell back to Foundation space. Tell them to send the Marines.”
There was grumbling, more discussion, but orders were orders, even in the backwater parts of the galaxy like Pancor. Wells and Peters suited up while Callahan made his way back to his quarters, trailed by Lyle.
“Communication has been dicey, Chief. You go in those towers, we may not be able to communicate.”
“I know that.”
“We should all go.”
“Absolutely not. I have a bad feeling about this, and I want you to take Briscoe out of here if it comes to that.”
Lyle sighed. “I don’t like the idea of leaving men behind.”
“I’m not crazy about it either, but we need someone to let Foundation know what’s going on out here.”
“What is going on out here?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out. Don’t worry. We’ll be in viros and we’ll be armed. If you see some fighting, come and get us. Otherwise, 1400. Take off. Understand?”
“Yes, Chief.”
The trio of explorers made their way through the base, collecting rifles and ammunition as they traveled through the deserted station. Callahan had seen the video from the virosuits, but nothing quite prepared him for the stark reality of the towers rising up from the valley, the way they seemed to be constantly moving and pulsing. It should have been beautiful, but something about the sight of it repulsed him. A sick ball was churning in his gut, souring the taste in his mouth. And, above it all, that pounding in his head.
“Ready to go?” Wells asked.
He was positively cheery. Something about the lack of concern he showed worried Callahan, and he considered sending him back to bring Lyle with them. But if something happened to Callahan, he knew that Lyle was the best candidate to lead Briscoe off the rock. Lyle would be a Chief himself someday, and Callahan knew well enough to keep one of them on board the ship at all times. Briscoe was a Foundation man. He would follow orders.
Callahan checked the chronometer sewn into the suit on his left wrist. They had about six and a half hours to get to the valley, make an initial sweep, and get back in communication range. The radio was already cutting in and out, a function of the grit and dust suspended in the air.
“I don’t like this at all. Something is really wrong about this.” Peters broke the silence through the speakers built into the viro helmets. He had been doing a lot of that. Peters spewed a river of complaints and worry. Callahan let it go. If that was the thing that kept his feet moving, one in front of the other, then that’s what it would take.
Wells said nothing. He was quiet, except for a brief stretch where he hummed to himself, like he was making a particularly good sandwich instead of tromping out the last airlock before they descended into the valley beyond the station. Peters snapped at him and the humming stopped, but Callahan saw that the engineer was still smiling in his absent way.
The Chief grew more agitated on the descent into the valley. The slope was gentle, and the journey took them only half an hour. The ground was loose beneath the boots of the virosuits, but not so bad that they couldn’t make it by walking upright. A bit of caution was required, that was all. But even this appeared to be beyond Wells and his vague happiness. He moved with confidence, pushing ahead of Callahan and Peters. Each step turned the dial of pressure up in Callahan’s head. He could only assume the same was happening for Peters. The complaints reached a fevered pitch, and Callahan was forced to snap back and tell him they were all nervous down here, damnit, and to keep quiet.
“Lyle, do you read?” Callahan asked when they reached the bottom of the rocky bowl. “Lyle, do you copy?”
Nothing. Whether the interference of the thick atmosphere or their geographical dip below the horizon, the three men were effectively alone. Well, not alone, Callahan corrected, they had three pink towers rising above them. Now that they were in the valley, he could see dark arches around the base, cave-like openings leading inside the phallic pink tubes.
“Behind me. Weapons ready. Careful and steady. Don’t shoot the colonists, for Christ’s sake.”
Callahan paraded his men to one of the arches, less dark as they grew close. Shadows leaned into the opening.
“Quiet and calm,” he admonished. He barely heard himself over the steady drumbeat in his head. “Let’s make this quick.”
Wells was the last to enter. He wanted to go first, wanted to run into the embrace of the tower, but the Chief was a clever one and he would know something was afoot. Since his first look at the towers, Wells knew this was home. Not Earth, not Galifrey, and certainly not the crude prefab station above them on the lip of the valley. It was here, inside a womb of soft pink. It had chosen him, and he knew that he would do whatever it asked.
Once inside, hallways like veins moved up and around. There appeared to be no pattern or order to the way they twisted and turned. Callahan paused inside, looked at the way the pink floor and the walls met each other seamlessly. There was a gentle give to each footstep. When Callahan pushed his hand into the wall, it bent under his touch like pink marshmallow, only slick and wet. The Chief instinctively rocked his hand to rid his glove of the ooze, but could not shake it all off. He avoided wiping it directly on his suit, though his hand hovered at his chest before it dropped to his side.
Wells grinned. Callahan and Peters had no idea what was happening, where they were. He could hear the voice of the towers telling him he would be rewarded. Already, a kernel of some other person whispered in his head, too low yet to be distinguished. It was a happy, silly, feminine voice, ordering him to keep them moving up and deeper, where the rest waited.
“We should leave,” Peters said, his voice at a whining, almost childlike, pitch.
“We will. As soon as we give this place a once-over. See what there is to see and get out.”
Peters made a sound like a balloon leaking air, a sound of fear.
“No time like the present,” Wells encouraged. “We should keep going. I think the tunnel on the right leads up. Maybe we can see something from the top?”
Callahan weighed the suggestion in a quiet minute. Wells knew the Chief didn’t trust him, but he couldn’t find the gaps in logic to prevent him from taking the suggestion. With a grunt, the Chief veered right, moving up and forward. Despite no light reaching from the dim exterior of the planet’s surface, they saw by a pink glow that came from the very walls and floors. Wells knew the tower was alive, and he suspected Callahan did now, too. Maybe he was keeping quiet for Peters’s sake, who still occasionally squeaked with fear as they marched.
“Wait,” Callahan said, extending an arm from his side to halt them. The pink vein they followed led them to a wide chamber. It felt like the center of the tower to Wells, but his sense of direction was confused by the twists and turns taken to reach this space. Not that he minded. This was his new home after all. The voice in his head was louder, assuring him he was close. Any moment now, he would be with them, whoever ‘they’ were. But he knew it was happiness they promised. More, bliss. Mindless, helpless, hungry bliss.
The chamber was high, at least fifteen meters, made of the same glossy pink goo the rest of the tower was made of. Two tunnels opened across from them, one appearing to lead up and another leading down. Lining the curved walls of the chamber were small chambers, human-sized, made obvious by dark seams in the pink skin of the walls. They looked to Wells like the geometric cells of a honeycomb in a hive, only instead of golden, these too were pink. As they watched, one of the cells shuddered and the pink wall split open, dripping a more viscous version of the pink ooze as it split. Wells thought of the amniotic fluid released during birth, and the voice in his head told him that this was not exact, but close to true.
Callahan waved them back with a gesture and they pressed into the wall of the tunnel, hiding as best they could from the thing emerging from the pink hive. It was like the figure was birthed from the cell, dripping the pink ooze and wet-looking. Itt had a feminine form, but its body was covered in the pink latex of the walls. The only flesh that could be seen was a hold cut into the latex allowing the mouth and chin to be seen. Along with a plump, enticing pair of puffy lips. The form was feminine, with large breasts, a tiny waist, and a big ass. The feet were in pink spiked boots, though there was no indication where the suit ended and the boots began. Maybe it was all one thing, Wells thought, a uniform wrapped around the hypersexual figure without any way to escape it. The sexy pink drone’s eyes were covered, but a londe ponytail threaded through the hood that covered most of its face. Set into the rear of the uniform was a tube ringed by a thick circle of latex. The tube was positioned where the drone’s ass would be, and it dribbled a clear lubricant when she moved. There was no similar tube in front, but rather a pink bulge without definition.
Seeing the figure made Wells gasp. The voice in his head squealed and urged him on. He started to step out from his hiding place and into the door of the chamber when Callahan’s arm shot out and forced him back against the wall.
The crew watched while the pink bimbo dressed in the anonymizing latex moved through the chamber and toward the leftmost tunnel, which angled down. Its ass wiggled hypnotically when it walked on its tall heels, and its breasts bounced on its chest, despite the latex sealing its body away. It cooed, a sexual sound, like the very act of walking turned it on.
It was all Wells could stand. He shrugged away the restraining arm Callahan threw out and stepped into the chamber, his arms held over his head.
“Here!” he cried, hands waving over his head. “Here I am! Please!”
The drone stopped and turned back in Wells’s direction. It did not move. Wells took a half-dozen steps closer.
“Please,” he repeated.
More chambers opened, ten of them, and identical pink drones emerged from the pink honeycomb. They moved as one organism, dripping with the pink slime, turning as one toward Wells, even though their eyes could not see. He walked to meet them, spreading his arms wide.
Somewhere behind him, the Chief and Peters were calling out to him, but they were distant. They might as well have been on the ship. The voice in his head assured him that they would understand soon enough and that he was only the first of the crew to be embraced by the new truth. The hands of the pink drones found him and dismantled his suit. They groaned and sighed as if the act of disrobing him was in itself an erotic act. The helmet turned and clicked and was off, taken away by more pink, latex-coated hands. A mouth found his, pillowy lips opening wide and he tasted the tongue of one of the drones against his own. More of them tugged at his gloves and unbuckled the seal on the suit. They were moving him, a sea of glossy pink bodies undulating around him, moving him away from the tunnel and toward the wall.
Soon, he wore only the undershirt and loose white pants that fit beneath the viro. Even his feet were bare, the floor squeezing between his toes. He was moving backward, hands pawing at him, caressing him, more mouths on his, on his cheeks and chin and neck. He drowned in lust and the voice in his head told him how happy it was that he had obeyed so well. And now, that voice said, it was time for his reward.
The orgy of pink latex pushed him back against the wall of the chamber, and then deeper. He was inside one of the honeycomb cells, and suddenly no more hands caressed him. He felt a well of loneliness swell inside him at the absence of the drones’ touch, and then he saw the wall closing behind him, sealing him inside the chamber.
Here, at the last moment, Wells felt panic. He understand clearly how he was manipulated, trapped in the belly of the tower. It swallowed them all, and now he was the first to be consumed. The chamber filled from the bottom up, the syrupy ooze that coated the pink drones. It was warm and singed his skin, a sting that never rose to hurt. It found his thighs and then his cock and testicles. A buzz like an electric current ran through the ooze, energy that flowed from the viscous medium to his flesh. When it surrounded his cock, a jolt of pleasure made him cry out, the sound muffled by the seal of the hexagonal chamber. He came,s pilling his seed into the mixture now rising to his belly, then his chest, then his neck. He held his breath as it rose to his lips and nose and then he was suspended inside the ooze. His feet lifted from the floor and he hung there, sealed away. His lungs burned for air, the need to breathe competing with the knowledge that to open his mouth and inhale would be death. But instinct always wins, and he did open his mouth. He did inhale. And the ooze flooded his lungs.
His body twisted and spasmed, floating in the pink fluid, expecting that he would see the world shrink and grow dim. But the opposite happened. His lungs continued to expand and contract, the pink ooze thick, but liquid enough for his body to expel. He realized that it must contain oxygen.
We take care of you, a voice whispered. Not like before, vague notions that guided his footsteps toward the towers, but a sultry woman’s voice that spoke directly into his mind. It might have come from someone standing just behind him if he hadn’t known he was alone in the chamber. We will take care of you and you will take care of us. Because you are one of us, now. Aren’t you, sexy?”
Wells had never been called sexy before, a description that didn’t exactly match his thin frame and weasely features. His nose was too sharp, his lips too thin.
Not like you were, the voice said, and it chuckled. The sound of that chuckle was low and knowing and deeply sexual. His cock, still erect, spasmed and tingled within the suspension that held him in its grip. I can see into your mind. I know what you think is sexy. And I know you want to be one of the pretty drones you saw, but we need you. You and the rest. Emissaries, that’s what you’ll be. And you will be our first. Just imagine the sexiest slut you can, and that’s what you’ll be.
A cascade of images rolled through his thoughts like thunder. All the things he liked on a woman. All the details that made him lust.
Good, the voice told him.
He seized, the low current of energy spiking, traveling through his body and freezing his muscles until he thought he might explode with the tension. The ooze swirled around him, faster, spinning him inside the sealed pink chamber. Hair whipped around, long and dark, and he knew that this was both not his hair and that it could belong to no one else. When he could move his limbs freely again, he held a hand up and saw long nails emerging from the tips of slender fingers. An elaborate tattoo decorated his left hand and snaked up his arm. Similar, smaller tattoos peppered the fingers of his right hand and right forearm, some feathery, some grim, all blue against his tan skin. His legs were fuller and decidedly feminine, and there was a new weight on his chest that started as small swells and grew until he felt their gravity, spinning inside the cell. His hands gripped them to keep them from dragging through the muck, and he found his hands only covered the surface of the nipples and the skin around, the hefty tits too large to hide with mere hands. He licked his lips, full and wide, cumming again with the flare of his hips and the erotic charge of this new body he had been given.
Aren’t you the yummiest whore? The sultry voice whispered, and he could not deny it. He felt yummy, And he felt like a she. Like he was the hottest bitch on two legs and the voice in his head giggled and told him how right he was. He thanked the voice from within his head, promised he would do anything for them.
I know, it said.
A new surge of pleasure struck and he came again.
Peters was a wreck. He saw the pink sexbots or whatever the hell they were grab Wells and push him into the chamber before it sealed behind him. Only it hadn’t looked like Wells was fighting them. Maybe he understood that a little. There was some kind of energy burrowing itself into his brain and making him want to follow Wells right into that chamber and let the drones do whatever they wanted. It was some sort of psychic infection, only he wasn’t sure if there was any cure short of getting the fuck off this rock.
Callahan led the way. They moved quickly back down the tunnel toward the entrance, the Chiefw whispering about how they would get back to the ship and call Foundation, let them deal with this clusterfuck. But as they followed the tunnel down, it twisted to the left and back up again. They retraced steps, quietly and slowly, but now that same tunnel only ended in a T-intersection, connecting to another vein that hadn’t been there the first time.
“Shit,” Callahan hissed.
“It’s trapped us,” Peters said.
The flit of frustration on the Chief’s face said ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ but the Chief was too in control to let a needless bard escape his lips.
“I know this is past what they teach you in school, but do you have any suggestions?”
Since seeing the fleshy towers, Peters’s substantial intellect turned the problem over in his head. Even before they entered, he suspected the whole place was alive, a pseudopod of perhaps a larger entity. After seeing the pink rubbery dolls, he suspected there were no actual beings, not the way he originally thought. It was, he surmised, more of collection of cells, a great whole made up of every piece of the towers and chambers, giant radios sending out signals to affect the minds of sentient beings who came close. A Venus flytrap of the mind. He communicated this as best he could to Callahan, who did not appear convinced, nor did he raise serious doubt.
“What about the colonists?” he asked.
“I believe the women in pink rubber are the colonists. Transformed, repurposed to serve the collective.”
“And that’s what happened to Wells?”
“It’s possible. Did you see the way he allowed them to lead him? I think he was a willing host to these parasitic creatures. You may be immune,” Pteres suggested, “but I can feel something in my head. Like an earworm, a song I can’t quite get rid of.”
“What about these damned tunnels?”
“If the whole thing is a collective intelligence, it stands to reason it could shift and change at will.”
“So how do we get out?”
The conversation was interrupted by a group of the pink drones, moving in their direction. They marched in unison, six of them in pairs of two across. Their eyes were covered by the pink rubber, still Peters was sure they were coming right for them.
“Go,” Callahan said low, his hand on Peters’s back, urging him back down the tunnel, with no idea where that might lead. “Hurry!” he added in the whisper-shout of someone teetering on the verge of true panic.
Peters did not hesitate, though the urge in his head to stand and shout,t o hand himself over was difficult to resist.
