The closet door swung open.

  Frankie raised the flashlight, bracing herself for a monster. There was no monster. Inside the cramped space sat a heavy steel safe, bolted to the deck. Thick, blue veins had burrowed through the metal of the ship’s wall and wrapped around it, pulsing rhythmically.

  “The biological override broke the encryption on the door,” Dee Dee said. She reached out and touched the glowing veins.

  Click. Whirrrrr. Clunk.

  The safe door popped open. Inside sat a single tablet in a cradle of gray resin. Dee Dee carried it over to the Captain’s desk, wiping a smear of slime from the screen.

  “Play the last one,” Frankie said, her voice tight.

  LOG ENTRY: FINAL

  The image flared to life. Captain Daria Heather sat in the chair, her dress uniform perfectly pressed, but her skin was the color of curdled milk. She was staring at a silver locket in her hand.

  Suddenly, Daria’s hand spasmed. She dropped the locket. Her face contorted into a mask of pure agony, her muscles corded like steel cables under her skin.

  “Run…” she gasped. Her voice was thin, cracking against a wet, bubbling sound in her throat. “If you… see this…”

  She gripped the edges of the desk so hard that the wood splintered.

  “It’s too late for us.”

  For a fleeting second, the terrifying blue light in her eyes flickered, revealing the terrified human woman underneath.

  “They’re worms,” she choked out, a tear carving a clean path through the grime on her cheek. “Small… at first. But they grow. They’re not just killing us… they’re using us to breathe.”

  On the screen, text scrolled rapidly across the bottom overlay: METHANE DETECTED. SULFUR LEVELS CRITICAL. ATMOSPHERIC MODIFICATION IMMINENT.

  “They’re making it… wet,” Daria rasped. “Like home.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  She let out a strangled cry, her spine arching unnaturally.

  “Everything green… will die to make room for the hive.”

  Behind her, the shadows moved. The remaining crew members shambled into the frame. They didn’t speak. They didn’t hiss. They let out low, mournful moans that vibrated with a mindless, hollow hunger. One of them, a man with his jaw hanging by a single tendon, let out a piercing, jagged scream that peaked the audio on the recording.

  Daria’s eyes snapped toward the camera. The blue light surged back, blinding and cold. Dead calm. Watching.

  “The work… must… continue,” she said, her voice now a layered, metallic drone.

  She stood up, her movements jerky and robotic. She leaned into the lens until the blue glow of her eyes washed out the picture. Without a word, she drew back a fist and slammed it directly into the camera.

  Glass broke. Static.

  “Terraforming,” Dee Dee whispered, pushing her glasses up. “They’re not just invading. They’re remodeling the planet.”

  “We have to see the source,” Frankie said, her jaw set. “If we can blow the pod, maybe we can stop the spread.”

  They made their way toward the main cargo hold. The thrumming in the floorboards was no longer a sound; it was a physical blow that made Frankie’s teeth ache.

  They reached the maintenance door and cracked it open. The smell hit them first: ammonia and rot. Frankie killed her light and crept onto the catwalk.

  Forty feet below, the floor was a living swamp of gray biomass.

  In the center sat The Pod. It was elliptical, smooth, and silver than diamond. It had peeled open like a rotting flower, its interior lined with silver veins. Pulsing lines.

  “It’s empty,” Damon whispered.

  “It hatched,” Frankie realized. She pointed to the floor near the pod. Massive, three-toed claw marks were pressed into the sludge, leading away into the shadows of the lower deck. Each print was the size of a manhole cover.

  The smell of birth. Amniotic fluid and copper.

  “Daria isn’t the Queen,” Frankie said. “She’s a suit. It must have entered her body like the worms.”

  SKREEEEE!

  A roar shook the catwalk. Below, the leathery eggs began to split. Gray, slimy hands burst through the membrane.

  “We need to leave,” Frankie ordered, turning back toward the door.

  But the door was blocked.

  Thick, gray resin dripped from the ceiling, forming bars across the exit. It hardened as they watched, steaming in the cold air.

  From the shadows of the catwalk behind them, ten pairs of electric blue eyes flared to life. The zombie crew stepped forward, holding jagged steel. Parts of the ship. They didn’t offer a welcome. They only opened their mouths.

  A scream. Ten throats. One sound.

  Frankie dropped the light.

  Fists up.

  “Ted. The spoon.”