Page 3 of Bred

She was resistant at first, kept insisting that she was an astronaut and not interested in mating with a male she’d never met before, but our seductors are well versed in their jobs, and soon she was spreading her thighs and welcoming him inside her as willingly as any female has ever taken her mate.

Beneath the looking glass, the swimmers reach their target—the ovum, a globe of potential, sitting adrift in the female. She has little concept of it, no feeling of it, and yet from that little speck, billions of lifeforms may directly arise in a chain of life stretching through time and space.

We watch with reverence as the swimmers find the outer wall. There is no obvious way in, and yet they persist, their tails flagellating behind them furiously. One, or perhaps two of them will pierce the veil. Not the first ones to arrive. Those will inevitably spend themselves in vain. It will be the one with the right timing and whatever spark of cosmic fate selects those who will go on, and those who will end their journey inside the womb.

I admire and empathize with the little specks of existence. Many millions were sent on their mission. None will survive the journey, but one will sacrifice itself and become something more.

We pan around the ovum. The surface is now covered in seed, each seeking to implant themselves with all the energy and determination coded into their simple forms. Theirs is the noblest battle, and though they are unaware of it, they fight it bravely.

The moment of the breach is almost undetectable. It would be possible to miss it entirely if we were not watching so closely. One of the many thousands wriggles a little faster and a little harder. The tip penetrates through the membrane and thereafter the rest of it slips through, the tip of its tail disappearing into the interior.

In a fraction of an instant, the membrane hardens to an impenetrable state. The rest of the seed continue to swim, but they slip from the surface finding no purchase. They will continue to fight, though their actions are now futile. A seed has been chosen, and new life has begun.

“There,” the doctor breathes. “The moment of perfection. Fertilization. Life springs anew. Somethingness from nothingness.”

“Excellent work, Doctor.”

I pat him on the shoulder. A breeding is a beautiful thing. The VSS Virility is on a ten-year mission to travel the known galaxy and mingle our genetic material with as many species as possible. It is a mission we take great pride in.

We are currently in orbit around a planet we have not been in contact with before. Earth. It contains a great many lifeforms, one fully sentient. They call themselves humans, and they are certainly enthusiastic procreators. The planet holds nearly thirty billion of the bipedal creatures who share sufficient similarities to our own genetic profile to allow conception to occur.

In a few minutes, a contingent of two hundred men will beam down to the planet, find willing mates, and engage in penetrative coitus culminating in insemination. Fifty females from our ship will likewise accompany them, seek out mates and collect their seed. Each of them is currently cycling at peak fertility, ensuring a high conception rate. They are instructed to discover as broad a selection of mates as possible. Each of their genetic profiles will be added to our own, and we will engage in cross breeding with further species we encounter later in our travels.

The aim is simple: a galactic citizen. One who has no one planet of origin, but can claim heritage from across the stars. There are many reasons to undertake such a task, but above all, we come in peace. War will not be possible when all of creation shares the same ancestry.

Races, species, these are concepts that have only led to chaos and conflict. The VSS Virility is crewed by chimera. We carry the blood and flesh of many lifeforms in our bodies. We acknowledge no borders. We have no allegiance to narrow notions of identity.

Earth is in a relatively quiet corner of the galaxy. We are unlikely to run into any conflict here, but the human capacity for chaos is well documented. Handling them one on one is likely to lead to some kind of trouble. I want to be ready to beam anyone out who needs it, put out fires, potentially quench a rebellion or two. We try not to come across as an invasive force on a planet, but it isn’t easy. Some species are more closed, protective, and paranoid than others. We suspect humans will resist us.

“Will you be joining the spawning party?” the doctor asks me.

“Not this time,” I say. “This species is advancing quickly and may cause trouble. They’re already space faring, to a limited extent. I’ll stay on the ship in case I’m needed. The others will do their job.”

“A pity,” the doctor replies. “Human females are particularly enjoyable to mate with by all accounts. The spawner in the footage unleashed his seed in record time and was able to rebreed within a matter of minutes.”

“Good for him. Not so good for her,” I smirk.

Some spawners pride themselves on speed. I focus on technique. It’s not enough to merely conceive. Our mission is part sexual, part diplomatic. Ideally, the female should be left in a state of satisfaction with vague memories of a male who was not quite of her world.

“Captain Talon!” My pilot’s voice breaks over the communications system. “We’re detecting a shuttle off the port side.”

“Another one of these orbiting humans?”

“Yes, sir, but it is moving faster than any of the others. It seems to have detected us.”

That’s not possible. We have advanced cloaking technology that keeps us hidden even from hyper-advanced civilizations. Humans are yet to discover the basics of interstellar flight. There is no way any of them should be able to make contact of their own accord.

“Has to be an accident. Activate slip shields and they’ll fly right by us.”

The slip shields are an important part of the cloaking system. No point being invisible if things bump into you anyway. Our slip shields operate by deflecting incoming ships at a slight angle several hundred miles from our ship, ensuring that they leave collision course before they realize they’re on it. And of course, we adjust our own trajectory in order to avoid collision when necessary.

“Yes, sir.”

I turn to the doctor, preparing to farewell him for the moment, but the pilot breaks in again. “Captain, the shuttle has penetrated the slip shields and is making adjustments. Impact in approximately thirty seconds.”

“Transport me to the bridge.”

The world flashes. I find myself in the captain’s chair.

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