Shokushu High School

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

With the exception of parts of Chapter Fifteen, this story is a fantasy, and is intended as entertainment. Since much of it deals with sexual themes, it is not appropriate for children; it may also not be suitable for those adults who find sexual material troubling or offensive.

Human sexuality is a complex and difficult subject to approach in art, just as it is difficult to deal with in life. While I hope the reader enjoys this tale, I hope also that he or she remembers that it is a fantasy, and that sexual reality is seldom so simple, or so easy, or even so safe, as it is in a fantasy. For this reason fantasies are both beneficial and potentially dangerous, depending on how we integrate them into our real lives. Please remember that for many women, and many men as well, sexual violence is all too real. If you, gentle reader, must bring something of this fantasy into your actual, real lives, let it be a decision to love more and care more, and to encourage those around you to do the same.

Enjoy!

Penni

ONE

They came to make war.

Not as an armada, battleships in formation, or even as a single warship, bristling with weapons. No. What came into the system, cruising at relativistic speeds, was a small, shiny disc, no larger than a quarter. It banked around the largest satellite, decelerating as it passed by the giant storm that stared out like an angry red eye, then slowing further as it whipped around the second gas giant, careful to avoid the brilliant rings that marked it.

These were the worlds they knew, the worlds they had seen from afar.

But there was another world, too small to be seen but loud enough to be heard as it broadcast in radio out into the heavens. The third world out from the star.

This was the world that had brought them.

To make war.

#

We must not, however, misunderstand.

War for those on the tiny ship was not the same as war for the loud, sentient beings of the small world who had so announced themselves to the cosmos. That sort of war was primitive, ineffective, easily overcome. To simply throw bombs and missiles at an enemy was a poor means of conquest, wasteful. Those on the ship, slowing now as it whipped through the star system, had come to make real war, fought with weapons unimagined by the sentients of the small blue and white world.

They were soldiers, veterans of a hundred campaigns like this one. Some they had lost, but more often they had won. As with any successful soldier, they could be merciless and yet know compassion, could deal death on a mass scale and yet weep for a single loss.

To them, the concept of individual names was unknown. They spoke directly, with subtle electromagnetic currents that conveyed ideas in their entirety, without the need for secondary forms of transmission like speech. It was a sophisticated way of communicating, common in various forms to more advanced life forms. You could tell who you were talking to and talking about by their essence, which in each case was unique. As they decelerated further the ones aboard the ship conversed.

It is the third world.

Yes. They are most populous.

Many victims.

Be concerned.

#

They slowed further, came into orbit around the third world, sensed the vast radar nets that blanketed much of the land surface of the planet. They saw the arrays of missiles, each pointed at another landmass, the huge cities, the vast transportation system. And as they observed, they saw something more.

There is a second sentient species. In the oceans.

Only the one on land has drawn attention.

The other?

We will see.

There is not much time....

Begin with the seas.

The ship descended toward the ocean, unseen by the powerful radar of the land dwellers. The world was three quarters water and the impact of the tiny ship was far out to sea, slipping into the water with a hiss, red hot, diving deep, then rising again, up to the surface.

It did not take much time to find a sentient.

#

The thing was caught, struggling, its loud cries echoing through the ocean. Others of its kind were nearby, swimming, helpless to come to the aid of their comrade. As the ship approached it sensed the fear in the thing, the anguish of its comrades, the pain brought by the cords that held it.

It was a net, miles wide, spread across the ocean. It stank of death.

What monster created this?

Quickly now... the lifeform is near death....

The ship moved, passed through the cords of the net, cutting them as it did, slicing neatly through them. The lifeform struggled free, swam to the surface, breathed.

Clicks and whistles abounded, echoing through the water.

Thank you.... Thank you....

The language was sophisticated, easy to translate. Those on the ship responded.

We are happy to have helped.

The creatures were singing now, their clicks and whistles matched by their joyous play as they swam and leapt from the water. Those on the ship listened for a time, speaking to one another.

An extremely advanced species.

Indeed.

The ship moved toward the lifeforms, began clicking and whistling to them.

Listen.... You are in danger....

The lifeforms stopped their play, formed a pattern around the ship.

Danger?

Yes. We are here to protect you.

From those with the nets?

No. Far worse.

The lifeforms grew silent and the ship could sense their fear. Then they began clicking, together, their sounds focusing in on the ship. The ship felt the clicks transmit through it, around it, analyzing it. Then, abruptly, they stopped. The lifeforms spoke again.

You are truthful. Tell us more.

#

No one knew where it had come from. It had no name save for what it was called by its victims, and though it varied from language to language, the idea was always the same, was universal.

Enemy.

It came, invisible tendrils flickering across space at the very edge of existence. The nature of its substance was poorly understood, but of its behavior, all too much was known. It fed on intellect, on higher thought. Like a parasite it would come to a world, float down, spreading like a web across it, fastening nearly invisible tendrils to the minds that dwelled there, feeding on them as they screamed in anguish and pain, as it savored the suffering of their consciousness.

Resistance was gone before the victims knew what was happening. They would die, but it was a slow death, the very essence of what it was to be sentient hollowed slowly out of them, withering into husks that would lie scattered over the surface of their now dead worlds.

Over time, defenses had been created, ways to stop the enemy, to prevent it from attaching itself to the mind. Ways to fight back, to destroy the tendrils as they penetrated into the brain, into the mind. But these required preparation, required adaptation, required microscopic weapons to be placed in the victims' bodies long before the enemy arrived. It required more, too; time for the victims to adapt, time for the weapons to do likewise. Some species could be saved more quickly than others.

All this they told to the lifeforms.

The enemy is on its way. You are one of two species in danger.

Can you protect us?

The ship scanned the lifeforms, analyzed what they found.

Yes.

#

It did not take much time. The lifeforms were highly intelligent and their bodies adapted well to the microscopic weapons. They were able and willing to spread the defense themselves among their species. Those on the ship noted with satisfaction that this species, at least, would be saved.

Will you leave us when the enemy comes? asked the lifeforms.

No. The weapons inside you will allow us to communicate with you. We will know where you are and how you feel. If need be we can take control of your motor functions, direct you and move you to safety. This will not harm you.

Thank you.... the sentients clicked. Thank you....

The lifeforms swam happily, playing in the rolling waves. After those on the tiny ship were certain that the weapons had taken hold in them, they turned their attention to the other sentients of this world, to those that dwelt on land.

Tell us about them, they said to their new friends.

Those with the nets?

Yes.

They are complex. Some are enemies. Some are friends. All are afraid.

Afraid?

Yes. Of each other, of themselves. Of that which is strange.

We must warn them of the coming enemy, those in the ship said.

They will not listen, the lifeforms answered. They are afraid. They fear and kill their own kind. They will fear you. We have sought to communicate with them for millennia but they are primitive and cannot understand us.

This was not encouraging. The ones on the tiny ship conferred, considered. After a few moments the ship began to glow, then became two ships, identical. One moved toward the swimming sentients.

We will stay with you. The others will attempt to save those on the land.

The sentients clicked happily, swam away with the tiny disc beside them. On the remaining ship, they conferred further. This problem was unanticipated; most sentient species welcomed them, were thankful for their aid.

If they fear us, then we must convince them.

This is doubtful. Their communication is unintelligible. Examine the imagery in their radio signals. They love war. They will resist.

Then they will die when the enemy arrives. All of them.

Time passed. The ones on the ship pondered. Then one spoke.

Perhaps it will be necessary to simply arm them and not communicate.

How?

The one explained, and the others concurred. Quickly the tiny ship made its way toward land.

TWO

Weston Jones relaxed idly on the beach, his surfboard beside him. It had been a long day, catching waves, lying in the sun, enjoying a beer or two from the cooler beside him. Most of all, though, he had enjoyed the sight of Celeste, just as he was doing now. She was a tall, slender girl, and he had known her for nearly a year now, since that first week in the fall when they had sat together in psychology class and shared notes. That had led to studying together and then long talks about life, philosophy, politics. They had a lot in common, a lot of shared interests, and even when they argued about something he still found himself respecting her opinion.

Weston had never been much of an extrovert. Girls intimidated him sometimes but he didn't know why. They were different, mysterious, and he never seemed to know what to say around them, what to do.

Except for Celeste, and he didn't know why that was either. She made him comfortable, like a good buddy. When he had come back from Thanksgiving break after arguing with his parents about something, she had been the only one who he had trusted enough to tell about it.

She was a friend, and that mattered.

Now she smiled over at him as she played in the surf, her small two piece swimsuit only accenting her abundant charms.

"Come on!" she called, waving to him.

The thought was tempting, Weston admitted to himself. But he was tired and it was also pleasant just to sit here and watch her. He supposed that if he could do more than simply watch, it might be worth the effort. Celeste was pretty, tall with dusty brown hair that fell around her shoulders when she let it loose, and deep brown eyes, and more than once he had thought about what it would be like to kiss her, hold her. But that wasn't the kind of friendship they had and he didn't want to ruin things by being pushy, because he knew that he didn't really know how to handle that sort of thing. He had the feeling she felt the same way. Platonic, because it was safer that way. Once they had even joked a few times about having a dual wedding when they each met the right person.

A wave crashed around her, the water around her knees, her bikini wet, water dripping off her. She laughed and splashed a bit.

Just friends, Weston thought. She looks like that and you spend all this time with her and you're just friends. No wonder Henry thinks you're gay.

He chuckled.

Celeste was still splashing in the water, enjoying the foam of the surf. He watched her, taking in the view of her, her skin and swimsuit still wet as waves broke around her. He sighed happily as he watched, the reaction in his own suit assuring him that whatever else Henry might think, gay was not on the agenda. Weston reached over and opened the cooler, pulling out a beer. Opening it, he returned his attention to his friend.

Except that she was gone.

#

He supposed at first that she had simply dove into the water and was swimming. Sitting up a bit, he scanned the waves for her, taking another sip of beer as he did. She could swim, he knew; one reason she stayed so slim was all the time she spent in the pool back at the university, where twice a week the two of them would swim laps together.

He didn't see her, though, and after a moment began to be concerned. There was no riptide in this area, no real dangers from the water. Where the hell was she?

Nothing. Just the waves.

Then, just out past the breakers, he saw her. She was struggling, fighting. She broke the surface, went down again.

Weston jumped up, grabbed his board, ran for the waves.

Shit. It better not be a shark. That's all I need.

He paddled out, his strong arms and long experience on the board bringing him quickly to the spot he had seen her.

Nothing. No sign of blood. Just the water.

Dammit!

Then, suddenly, just off to his right, Celeste broke water again. This time he heard her scream. He paddled quickly toward her; was that seaweed she was caught in?

She grasped the edge of his board, held on.

"What is it?" he cried, reaching out to grasp her arm.

Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. "Oh, God! Weston! Help me!"

Then she was gone again, yanked under the water. He reached for her, caught her arm, felt it slip away. Then he yelled out as something else wrapped itself around his wrist and jerked him off his board.

#

The small ship was at the center of the mass. As it had moved toward land it had absorbed loose biomatter from the rich ocean water around it, had modified the organic molecules to form tentacles and appendages that would give it the ability to grip and strike. Now these were an extension of it, surrounding it, protecting it even as several tendrils were modified to implant its weapons in the land dwelling species.

They had spied the two sentients by the water, had watched as they swam and played. The two were different from each other; one was male and the other female.

We need time with them. We need to determine how to best implant the weapons.

That may be difficult. They are social. One will come to the aid of the other.

In the water they will be more vulnerable.

They struck the female first; the male had left the water and was resting. One tentacle, quickly, around her ankle, then more leaping up, quickly, pulling her down and away from the land. She struggled, fought, even as the tiny ship scanned her, analyzed her, bringing her up for air when she needed it.

She communicated when they did; this species used sound waves to relay information, as did the oceangoing sentients. But for these ones the method was slow, crude. The ones in the ship tried to translate her sounds, failed.

Interesting. Most interesting.

They can only communicate certain types of ideas this way. It will be difficult to interpret and communicate with them.

The male is coming.

Bring him.

This was not difficult. They were in deeper water now, and with a single tentacle they pulled the male from his floatation device, pulled him deep. He struggled against their grip but more tentacles wrapped around him and rendered him helpless.

Good. Take them from shore and complete the examination.

#

Weston fought, hard, but it was hopeless. Whatever this was, its grip was tighter and stronger than anything he had ever seen. They were at the surface now, far out from shore. He could see Celeste, just a few yards away; there was a thick tentacle around her neck, just as he could feel the one around his own, keeping their heads above water.

He felt other things elsewhere, caressing over his body, probing. One thick thing snaked up into his suit and he gritted his teeth as it explored.

What the hell was this thing?

#

The creatures conversed.

These sentients will be difficult to arm. Injection would cause internal hemorrhaging.

We must use a natural orifice and a liquid transmission base.

The male has two orifices. Only one is designed for intake.

Begin.

#

Weston no longer struggled. The fight was gone from him, surrendering to exhaustion. Then, as he watched, another tentacle emerged from the water. It pushed toward his face, his mouth, pressing against his lips. He gripped his jaw shut, fought it as it pushed against his mouth.

It moved up, covering his nose. As he gasped for air, it shot into his mouth.

He gagged, fought the bile as it pushed in deep. He bit against it, feeling his teeth sink into the thing, then tasted something sweet flood his mouth and flow down his throat. He gagged again, felt as it burned for an instant and then was gone.

#

The female?

She is similar, but there are three orifices, two intakes.

The male has been successfully armed through the mouth.

Yet he resists, and has damaged the arming system with his teeth. This is acceptable, but not optimal.

Agreed. Use the second intake orifice.

#

Celeste came to consciousness slowly. There were things around her, wrapped tight, holding her. There was air, the smell of the ocean. She opened her eyes, blinked against the sting of the salt water. She struggled, but it did no good; whatever this thing was, it was strong.

Where was Weston?

She gasped as she felt things against her skin, things like snakes, caressing her body. They roamed freely, like they were searching, and she felt as one pulled the cup of her bikini top away, revealing her breast. She could not see what the thing looked like but it took an interest in her nipple, touching at it and caressing it.

She moaned, struggled again.

Another thing moved down, over her belly, to the waistband of her bikini bottom. It took a few seconds, exploring the material, roaming over her mons, then moved quickly up and then down, under the waistband, over her mons and into the warmth between her thighs. She gasped, fighting the thing, but it held her tight.

It explored for a moment, touching the soft folds of her labia, and she squirmed against it as it did. This was obscene, impossible!

Yet it was gentle, too, tender, almost like a tongue. She felt as it explored her inner folds, as it touched at her clitoris, eliciting a soft moan, and then as it pushed up into her, driving slowly up, pushing the walls of her vagina apart.

"Oh, God," she moaned, struggling weakly.

#

Better. The female reproductive system for this species is ideal for implantation.

Excellent. Proceed.

#

The thing began to move, thrusting slowly inside of her. Celeste moaned again. A part of her resisted, recoiling in horror at the violation, but more and more the thing's gentle caress was arousing her, even as she felt it begin to expand, as she felt her body begin to react, her nipples growing hard, erect.

She felt herself writhe, not in resistance but in pleasure. Her skin was flush now, and she was trembling. Still the thing pushed up into her, then out and in again, the other tentacles holding her tightly as she was violated.

There was something more now, as she felt the tentacle spurt suddenly, felt as warmth filled her vagina and up into her womb, and as it did she gasped, climaxing, spasming against the tight grip as an orgasm overtook her.

"OH!"

#

In the small ship, buried deep beneath the tentacles, the creatures stopped, scarcely believing what they saw from their sensors.

What was that? Was the arming successful?

Yes. But look!

Impossible!

They checked their sensors again, then checked for sensor failure. They found none.

There has never been a reaction like this. Not in any sentient.

Impossible!

We must observe. How did this happen?

Arm her again.

#

Celeste felt as the thing began to move inside her again. It hadn't been an intense orgasm, rather what she had always called one of the "fuzzy little ones". It was almost shameful that she had felt it here, that she had actually enjoyed being violated by this thing, whatever it was.

She moaned now. It was thrusting harder, and she felt her body reacting again. She was already aroused now, and she squirmed as the thing pushed in and out of her, felt her body shiver with pleasure as it did. She tensed, felt her vagina clamp around the thing, squeezing tight, bringing a helpless moan to her lips.

It was relentless, never stopping, thrusting in and out of her. She gasped again, moaning helplessly now, shivering as she felt her climax near, then crying out as it tore through her, not fuzzy or little this time, but a full blown orgasm, her entire body spasming hard against the tentacles.

"Oh! Oh! Oh God! Oh God, yes!"

She felt the tentacle spurt, deep into her, but it did not stop this time, thrusting again and again, thick and rigid and hard inside her. She orgasmed again, then immediately again, her body writhing in the thing's embrace as it took her.

"Oh God! Oh GOD!"

Her cries became incoherent now as the thing pumped her unmercifully. There was no reality, only the waves after waves of pleasure that tore through her, her body shivering and spasming and writhing helplessly in the thing's grasp.

At last she could take no more and consciousness fled.

#

In the small ship the excitement was thick, communications shooting back and forth as the information came through the sensors.

Impossible!

Incredible!

Elaborate! Elaborate!

The female's reaction was unanticipated. The procedure itself had an effect on her.

Elaborate.

The liquid transmission base appears to have affected her biochemistry. There was a massive neural response. This in turn had an effect on the implanted weapons.

Elaborate.

The weapons have changed. They are well beyond their maximum power.

There was a pause.

Is this true of the male as well?

No. He is immune, but he lacked the neural response. His weapons are at standard power.

This at least was expected and they were silent for a time. The male was conscious and he was calling out to the female, but she was limp now, and they sensed that her body had reached its limit. The tentacle withdrew from her and they began to move back toward shore. When they reached the edge of the water they released both sentients, watching with satisfaction as the male took the female and carried her out of the water.

Then they disappeared into the surf. This was a new development, unanticipated. They would need to confer.

THREE

They studied the data for some time. It was different; the liquid base they had created to transmit the weapons seemed to have an unexpected effect on the female's nervous system, causing a cascade reaction. This reaction varied in intensity depending on the amount of prior stimulation to particular areas of her anatomy, notably the soft folds and small bump at the exit of her orifice.

What was most interesting, though, was the effect of the neural reaction on the weapons. The creatures in the tiny ship checked the feedback from their sensors; it was clear that the more intense and sustained the neural reaction, the more powerful the weapons became.

The neural response is crucial. This sentient is not only immune to the enemy, but if this reaction in the weapons continues, she could easily become an offensive weapon against it.

An offensive weapon?

There was a pause. Never before in their long war had the thought of an offensive weapon been raised. Once a world was taken by the enemy, it was over, the inhabitants there consigned to terror and pain until they died. The war was defensive, had been for centuries. If a planet could be reached in time, the enemy might be repulsed, but that was all. Their weapons could never destroy enough of it to retake a world.

Until, perhaps, now.

This merited a message, sent home across the stars, relaying their data and asking for instruction. This took a great deal of energy and after they transmitted they settled to the ocean floor and rested their power systems.

A day later the reply came back.

#

Ed Jackson was not a man prone to imagining. Life to him was simple. Look at what is there, reach a reasonable conclusion, deal with it. This meant that as an artist or philosopher he was doomed, but it made him a good policeman. He liked it here, too. Evansfield was a good place to live; not much crime, with the small private university as its main industry. It did get a little loud around campus on weekends, but nothing like he had seen back in Chicago. Back there, he had wondered if he was going to live long enough to retire.

Now, as he stepped from his car and strode out onto the beach, he thought back to what the boy had told him at the hospital.

"Something grabbed her. I went out after her, and it grabbed me too."

"What was it?"

"I don't know. But it was alive. Then it let us go. I drove her straight here."

Jackson frowned, the sand giving slightly under his feet as he walked. The boy's account was improbable, to say the least, particularly since he couldn't really describe the "thing" that had attacked him. Jackson suspected he was leaving something out too. The beaches here were safe; the worst accident he could remember was some kid stepping on a sea urchin five years ago. But the girl had been unconscious when the boy brought her into the emergency room, mumbling incoherently in her sleep. That made it worth checking out.

The towel and the cooler were still there. Jackson crouched down, picked up the open can of beer, shook his head and reached for his radio. "This is Jackson. I'm at the beach. It's clear. Just some beer here. She probably drank too much and passed out."

The station acknowledged him. He reached over and picked up the towel and cooler, took them back to his car.

Damn drunk college kids, he thought.

#

Those in the tiny ship played the message from their home, listening closely.

We confirm your data. This is an opportunity that must not be lost. Continue your mission and research these lifeforms with the intention of making the weapons in them as powerful as possible, as follows:

Adapt the liquid transmission base to heighten the neural response.

Communicate the situation to the sentients, if possible.

If you cannot communicate with the sentients, find another way to make them cooperate with your arming procedure.

Arm as many of the sentients as possible to be offensive weapons.

Try not to cause too much disruption of their social system, unless it is necessary in order to achieve the above objectives.

There was more in the message, too.

The situation is growing desperate. The enemy has spread and is moving on more star systems than we can defend. Your work has absolute priority. Do what is necessary.

Concur.

The small ship and its surrounding biomass had settled to the sea floor some distance out, hidden among the other life there. Alterations began, a second layer developing around the tentacles within, its surface capable of being altered to match its surroundings. Then they moved, slowly at first, then more rapidly, toward the shore. As they moved they considered the message, the data they had. It was clear that more information was needed; this was new, all of it. How would the females adapt over time? Why did the fluid used in transmission have such an effect, and how many such reactions would it take to make the weapons most useful? How long would it take for their bodies to fully assimilate such power and be able to use it? And most importantly, how would they arm as many of these lifeforms as possible?

We must begin with the female we have already armed. Study her. We must determine how many of the neural reactions are required to make the weapons ready for battle.

They knew where she was, tracking her through the telemetry provided by her weapons. They saw when she was hungry, when she was thirsty.

Send the message to her weapons and take control of her motor functions. Bring her here.

Others must be found as well.

Soon.

The shoreline appeared ahead. The sun was low in the sky, and there was much to do.

#

Celeste sat on the bed in her dorm room and tried to make sense of what she remembered. They had released her from the hospital this morning after an overnight stay for observation. A policewoman had come in after she had awakened and asked her some questions about rape, about whether or not she had been drinking, about Weston and if he had done anything to her.

She had said no. Weston was a good guy, a gentleman. Sometimes she wished he would be more assertive, wished that their friendship might become something more, but as cloudy as her memory was, she was sure that he had not done anything inappropriate.

They checked her then, anyway. She did not protest. There was evidence of recent penetration, but no semen. There seemed no reason to do more, so they just let her sleep and the next morning Weston had come and driven her back to campus.

He said little as they drove and she wondered why.

She tried again to remember.

The beach. They had been at their favorite spot, the place just off the road north of town, where there wasn't enough sand to attract the crowds but where you could have a nice picnic if you wanted to. He had brought some beer and sandwiches and they had sat and talked as they ate. She had smeared more sunblock on herself and watched as he surfed, and then she had done some swimming while he rested.

What then?

Her memory wasn't clear. Things, around her, touching her, holding her. And pleasure too, deep pleasure, as something pushed up into her.

The door opened and Vicky stepped in. Vicky was her roommate, a sophomore. She had blonde hair and a gorgeous face and a body that made Celeste envious; long legs, a tiny waist, rounded, feminine hips, and large, prefect breasts. She had guys too, plenty of them, and she enjoyed playing them, savored the attention they gave her, one and then another and then another. A few she slept with, and she kept a box of condoms in her top dresser drawer. But these were never more than flings and within a month or so there was usually someone else.

"Hey," she said now, checking her face in the mirror, "Where were you last night? You and Weston finally do it?"

Celeste shook her head. "We just spent the night."

"I'm telling you, girl, he wants you. Go for it."

"Maybe someday."

Vicky laughed. "No time like the present," she said. "I'm going to a party at Sigma Alpha Epsilon. You want to come?"

"No thanks."

"Your loss." Vicky pulled her purse over her shoulder and left.

Celeste sighed, lay back on her bed. If only she could figure this whole thing out. She thought about asking Weston, but that would mean talking about what she had felt, and that was intimate and he might get the idea she was coming on to him and that could ruin their friendship. That had happened to her once before, in high school, and she wasn't going to let it happen again.

It occurred to her after a moment that there might be something at the beach that could tell her. She didn't like this idea at first since it came with a twinge of fear, but the not knowing was hard too and after a while her curiosity built up enough to drive her off her bed. She changed into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and tennis shoes, then grabbed her purse and left.

She had to know but didn't know why. Whatever it was, she thought to herself, it had happened in the water. As long as she stayed out of the water, she would be all right.

Her legs carried her quickly, almost as though they had a mind of their own.

#

It was getting a bit dark when she arrived, as she walked the last mile from the bus stop. The beach was empty and she stared at it for a while, then walked out onto the sand. There were footprints here, her small bare feet and Weston's larger ones, and a pair of shoeprints that went out to where they had lain their towels and cooler, then back again.

That was all. The waves lapped at the shore in the low light, the sound relaxing.

Celeste watched for a while, trying to reconstruct things. She had been there, and Weston had been sitting on the towel there, watching her. She stepped toward the edge of the surf, not knowing why. There was an answer; for some reason she was sure of it. It was there, by those rocks.

Another part of her, deep inside, screamed caution. This was too close, too close ....

But still she stepped forward. It was a bit like a dream, like she was a puppet, an actress, her role laid out for her. As she approached the water she saw that the tide had brought in a mass of black seaweed. She felt the sand, wet now, squish beneath her feet.

To her left, the mass of seaweed moved.

Perhaps it was just a wave, pushing it a bit further up on the sand. In the gathering dark it was hard to tell. Celeste stared for a moment, then turned her attention back to the rocks.

Something brushed her ankle.

She looked down. It was black; maybe a piece of the seaweed. She reached down to brush it away.

And felt it move against her hand.

She gasped, then cried out as the thing went around her ankle. It went tight as she jumped back, pulling her to the sand. She pulled her leg away, then saw, out of the corner of her eye, the mass of seaweed move again.

Only it was not seaweed now. The dark material had fallen away, like the petals of a flower, revealing within a mass of pink and white, crawling up somehow from where it had lain half buried in the sand. This quivered as another shoot extended, wrapped tightly around her other ankle, pulling her toward it.

Celeste screamed.

It seemed not to notice as it pulled her close, and she saw that the pink and white center was a mass of tentacles, writhing and twitching. As she screamed again several shot out, snaking up her long legs. She grasped outward with her hands, clutching at anything to help her pull away, finding only sand. The tentacles were wet, smelling faintly of the sea, and they roamed up now, over her shorts and then under her T-shirt. She gasped as they found her breasts, snaking around the fabric of her bra, even as more tentacles emerged from the thing and began to roam around the waist of her shorts.

She kicked at the thing, felt her foot bounce off its dark exterior. Then she cried out as a tentacle touched the zipper of her shorts and drew it down. Another snaked up and popped the button at her waist, and she moaned and struggled as two more tentacles pulled the garment down her legs.

Her struggles were to no avail. The thing pulled her shorts free, leaving her in her panties. Celeste looked down and cried out as she saw a new tentacle, larger that the others, move up the inside of her thigh, quivering a bit as it did. Even in the fading light she could see that it glistened with moisture, even as the tentacles under her shirt pulled up, bringing her shirt up and over her head, off her arms and away, slithering down to pin her arms.

"Oh, God," she moaned, as the thing reached her upper thigh, leaving a trail of wetness along her soft skin. "This can't be ...."

The tentacle paused, touching gently at the crotch of her panties, pushing against them as though curious. She felt the touch against her vulva, felt the moisture seep through the thin nylon and cotton, felt herself shiver at it. Then, tentatively, it moved up and burrowed around, over her mons and then down again, pushing the soft material of her panties aside as it nosed into the nether folds of her vagina.

She cried out, her body suddenly shivering involuntarily as the tentacle pushed against her labia, as she pushed her thighs together to try and stop it, squirming helplessly in the thing's grasp. She cried out again, louder, as the thick, wet tentacle thrust deeply into her, her scream drowned out by a sudden crash of surf, the water running up and over her discarded shorts nearby.

#

A moment passed, then another. Celeste fought against the hold, against the tendrils that were wrapped around her, gasping and shivering at the obscene violation of her body. The tentacle was in her now, deep, and she could feel it move, feel it quiver, long and hard.

She squirmed, felt its wetness, then felt her own.

"No ...!" she cried as it began to thrust in and out of her. "This can't be happening!"

But it was. The tentacle pushed deep, drew back, pushed deep again. She gasped, tensed against its hold. It was big, hard, wet, merciless. She squirmed again as more tentacles emerged, moved over her chest, pulling the straps from her shoulders and drawing her bra cups away, touching at her nipples, wrapping around her breasts and squeezing gently

It thrust again. Again. Her vagina shivered against it and she felt her own dew join the moisture it had exuded, felt as it swelled inside her, felt a ridge rise up on the thing, grazing her clitoris with each obscene thrust.

Celeste spasmed, suddenly, her orgasm coming so quickly even she had not anticipated it. She screamed out again into the dusk, her slender body writhing, her vision blurring as she fought for air. The tendrils were soft, moist against her nipples, rigid now and hard with her arousal. She moaned helplessly, relaxing a bit in the afterglow of her climax.

It has to stop now, she thought. It's had its way with me.

But it did not. The tentacle thrust in again, harder and harder now, the ridge rippling over her nub as it did. Celeste cried out, the afterglow becoming arousal, feeling as her hips bucked involuntarily, thrusting down now, against the tentacle, her body begging it to go deeper, to pump harder.

"Oh!" she screamed, climaxing again uncontrollably, screaming out at the explosion of pleasure that shot from her clitoris through her entire body, even as she felt the thing ejaculate into her, even as she came again, squirming as she cried out, as her passion echoed over the empty beach, as with each thrust now she orgasmed, her body stretched taut and then released like a spring, over and over again as the monster ravished her, as it rammed itself into her soft, yielding body, filling her with its burning wetness.

#

They watched the data closely, checked the telemetry from the weapons that by now had bonded with every cell in the female's body. There was no question; with each neural reaction, the weapons' power jumped.

Other tests began. Direct stimulation of the small bit of flesh at the opening to her orifice produced an even stronger reaction, and this matched with continued stimulation of the canal resulted in the neural reaction happening again and again in rapid succession. The reaction was intensified further by stimulating the two glands on her chest, particularly their points.

Excellent.

Other tests did not go so well. The lifeform was clearly communicating, with loud and intense sounds coming at random times from the orifice near her brain. Those on the ship recorded the messages, analyzed them, compared them with the radio signals they had gathered, came up with nothing. The language, if that was what it was, was too primitive to understand, even with the visual data they had gathered from the species' transmissions.

How will we explain? It is too difficult to draw her here, and without cooperation, how will we arm others?

The ones in the ship paused, concentrating for a moment on the female's reaction. She was fighting their hold, straining their biomatter tendrils as she writhed. They noted with some satisfaction as another neural response shot through her, watched as the weapons' power jumped up again. Idly they increased the tempo of the implanting tentacle.

Continue to research the problem. For now, however, we must consider other methods.

The weapons in her system can be modified to give us more control over motor functions. We will not need their cooperation if we can arm enough of them.

Is this moral? They are sentients. They have a right to know what we are doing, and why. Simply to control their bodies and arm them is inadequate.

It will have to do. There is little time. Proceed.

#

It was dark now. Celeste could see the stars, the crescent moon casting its dim light over the beach. She did not know how long it had been; probably a few hours. The tentacle was still inside her, her entire body aching from her strains against the tendrils that still held her. It had slowed its thrusting now but she was still aroused, her body still trembling from the unending series of orgasms it had provoked in her.

She climaxed again as the tentacle thrust deeply.

Would it never end?

Celeste shuddered, her mind unclear. She had felt compelled to come here; now it was unclear why. But the need had been great, deep inside her. She remembered sitting in her dorm room and the idea being suddenly there, irresistible.

The thrusting stopped suddenly. The tendrils relaxed. Celeste gasped, lay still for a moment. Perhaps it would release her now; perhaps she had at last sated its lust.

A thought came to her.

She should spread her legs.

What?

It was an insane idea! She should take advantage of this opportunity, should flee, should find the police and bring them here to kill this thing!

No. The thought was there, growing into an urge.

Part your legs.

Celeste blinked, trying to understand. Her head was clear; she knew where she was, what was happening. And yet despite all sense the urge was there, not unpleasant, not threatening, but overpowering now, impossible to resist. It was as though her body was not quite her own, like she was merely a passenger and someone else was in control.

She spread her legs.

Almost as though it were a reward, the tentacle began thrusting hard into her again. She climaxed instantly now, writhing and spasming, even as the tentacles around her arms relaxed their hold.

The thought was there to run, but the compulsion to stay was stronger.

FOUR

In time she rested, too exhausted to move, as the thing finished with her and withdrew. It was dark, the moon having long since set, the only sound now the waves as they lapped at the nearby shore. She tried to think as she lay, but thoughts were hard to come by. All that she knew was the warm afterglow of her pleasure, a feeling that pervaded her and guided her into a deep slumber as she lay back, her legs spread widely, clad only in her panties and bra, the dark mass beside her.

She wondered what it was, where it had come from.

#

The beings inside the ship observed her and the telemetry from her weapons.

Interesting. The neural reaction seems to occur in bursts. The effect on the weapons appears to relate directly to the number of such bursts, particularly if they are repeated and uninterrupted.

Yes. But the intensity of the neural reaction will eventually cause exhaustion and danger to the prime organ of the circulatory system. It may also produce unconsciousness.

Establish the optimal time period for the female in order to maximize the effect on the weapons without causing permanent harm.

They went to work. The female stirred in her slumber, shivered. The beings on the ship adapted one end of the biomass into a thin, broad, soft layer and laid it over her. When morning came they drew it away, consulted.

We are prepared. It will take several long periods of sustained, uninterrupted neural reactions to make the weapons effective at tactical ranges. This one is only at the beginning stages of preparedness.

We must find others. Time is short.

How? This one we caught by the ocean. She was convenient. But we cannot wait for such convenience, and it will take time for the weapons to assimilate into the bodies of these sentients.

True. Consider, though, their transmissions. They are a social species. They gather in groups.

If we release this one, will she lead us to others?

Perhaps. But we must not face too many this early. As a social species they would communicate our presence and flee, and we would fail.

Release this one, then. And follow her.

#

Morning came and Celeste awakened to the warm feeling of the sun on her. She moaned softly, blinking as her eyes came open. Oh, what a dream, she thought at first.

She gasped as she looked down, saw how she was clad, felt the sand beneath her.

No!

She looked around, frantically. The beach was empty, save for her.

What happened to me?

It can't have really happened!

Without thinking, she reached down and touched at the crotch of her panties. She gasped again as a sudden shiver of pleasure rippled through her. Pulling the thin cloth aside, she touched at her vulva. It was wet, had the feel of recent penetration. She shivered again at the pleasure her fingers were bringing her.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

Quickly she found her shirt and shorts, pulled them on and hurried back up to the road.

She did not notice the large dark stone move up the beach after her.

#

He saw her come into the dining hall, saw her move and find a table by herself. She looked different, her hair a bit mussed and her T-shirt and shorts a bit wrinkled. He picked up his tray from his table and moved over to her, sat down.

"Hi, Celeste."

She looked up at him after a few seconds. She didn't smile and there was something about her eyes that didn't look familiar.

"Weston."

He waited for her to say something more, but in vain. Her gaze dropped. Finally he spoke again.

"Hey, are you all right?"

She didn't look up. "Fine."

"Celeste, if this is about what happened at the beach the other day --"

He saw her go red, the remainder of what he wanted to say dying in mid breath.

"No! Just leave me alone!" she snapped.

Around them, heads turned. Weston felt his shoulders tense up.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Sorry."

She looked at him and he looked at her for several minutes. Then, abruptly, she got up and walked out of the cafeteria, leaving her meal uneaten.

#

They moved slowly, carefully, toward the settlement. It grew more and more busy, more and more crowded as they did, more and more difficult to move unnoticed, even with the camouflaged exterior to the biomass. But they knew where they were going, tracking the female through her weapons, and at last they simply attached themselves to the underside of one of the larger passenger vehicles that was heading in that direction. This brought them eventually to an area of grass nearby the group of structures she had gone to, at which point the tiny ship and it surrounding biomass emulated a bunch of dead plant matter and fell to the street, moving slowly over the concrete sidewalk and to the grass itself.

It was not hard to track the female; after the stimulation of the night before her weapons virtually dominated the tracking sensors, those of the male fading to a mere stream of telemetry by comparison.

Stone, bush, grass. The ship and biomass passed unseen, observing as they did.

There are many here. Both females and males.

Too many. To arm even several would attract the attention of the others.

True.

The patch of grass moved, up and quickly through the open door of a structure, scanning each room.

There. A group of males, isolated.

Proceed.

#

Burt Devans grunted as he pushed up the bench press, his broad, muscular chest heaving with the effort. He thought as he did about the movies, about how in the movies the football players in college were always partying, always scoring.

What a load of crap. He was up at 5am every day and practiced until dinner, with short breaks for his classes. Then he tried to study all evening. It was too goddamn much, and he wasn't learning anything.

What the hell good is college if you don't learn anything?

He pushed the weight up again, glanced over at Chet, who was working out with a pair of barbells. Chet grunted, sweat marking his musculature, set the barbells down.

There were five of them in the room. The starting defensive line and a linebacker.

"I'm hitting the showers," Chet said. "Got a test in history in an hour."

Burt grunted, pushed up again. Then, suddenly, something passed in front of his face.

"Hey, cut that shit out!" he said loudly.

Chet turned at the noise. Burt saw his face, his eyes go wide, and then Burt gasped out again as something long and stiff jammed its way into his mouth, the sound of the weights in the weight machine crashing behind him as he raised his hands to fight with the thing.

He saw Chet go down, his yell cut off by the pink thing jamming its way past his lips, and out of the corner of his eye, the others too.

#

The struggle lasted for several minutes. These males were strong, determined, violent, and there were five of them. In the end the tentacles won out, however, holding the five down tightly as they were armed through the facial orifice.

The weapons held, infiltrating their bodies. Quickly the tentacles withdrew into the biomass, even as the door to the room opened and several more males came in. Noise began then as the newcomers saw the subdued males, and the biomass altered its color to match the wall and hurried through another door. The room beyond was larger and the sensors on the small ship noted a system of ducts overhead. Skirting up the wall, the biomass squeezed into one just as the door behind it opened.

The biomass is damaged. The males of this species are dangerous and violent.

There must be another way to arm them. All that is necessary is to give them each a basic weapons platform.

There is the second problem of the social nature of this species. No doubt the five males are communicating our presence to others. At a certain point enough of them will have convincing stories and the species will take action against us.

The ones on the small ship considered this problem carefully, moved deep into the duct system, scanned the structure of the building as they did.

Note that in many of the rooms there is a supply of water, all from a common source. The sentients drink from these sources. Note also that our method of arming the males has utilized the facial orifice. If we can find the source of their drinking water, it may be possible to modify the weapons and liquid base to arm large numbers of this species as they drink.

They looked at the design of their weapons, the makeup of the liquid base.

It is possible. However, some of the sentients might note a change in the taste of the water.

True. But we have little time, and this species is both violent and unable to communicate. There is no time to arm each of them, particularly if they continue to resist.

We must also prevent them from organizing against us, and there is also the important issue of the creation of offensive weapons with the females.

#

These problems took longer to solve. At last a further modification to the weapons was proposed and accepted, albeit grudgingly. The weapons were designed to control motor function to allow control of movement in battle; in the female they had already armed and examined they had been able to use them to control a wider range of behaviors. With a bit of work, the weapons could also affect memory, though this was not a pleasant option to those on the small ship. They were sentient beings, and they respected sentience, respected the right of such beings as these to have a clear view of the universe and of their own lives. To interfere with memory was not moral to those on the small ship.

But it is necessary, particularly in the males.

Agreed. But there will not be complete memory blockage. Only enough for our purposes.

There is a further limit. Those we have already armed will be immune to our memory blockage. To disarm them and then arm them again could cause permanent damage.

It was morning now. The biomass was repaired. They had scanned the building completely, had found the external source of its water. Now, deep inside the biomass, a decision was made. As it had before the small ship glowed for a moment, then became two identical discs. One remained inside the biomass; the other burrowed its way out, floated through the ducts and into a large basin of water, moving quickly to the source. It slipped into the pipes and began to make its way to the ultimate source of the settlement's water supply.

The biomass moved slowly through the duct system, then out of the building. Creeping inches at a time, changing its shape and color to blend into the background as it did, it began to move toward where the single armed female's telemetry glowed with power on their sensors. It was still early and there were few of the sentients out, so they managed to make good time.

FIVE

This was shit. Celeste wasn't like this. He had gone by her dorm room in Williams Hall after lunch, hoping to apologize, but no one had been there, and later he had called and her roommate had said she wasn't in. And this morning she had missed biology lecture. This wasn't like her, not at all.

And it didn't take much for Weston to know why.

It was that thing, whatever the hell it was. It had done something to her, something dirty and perverted, just like it had done to him. He remembered the look on the cop's face when he had tried to describe it to him, the way the man had looked at him, like he was some sort of date rapist with a bad story.

Weston sat now in psychology class. His eyelids were heavy; he had been up all night last night, trying to sort all this out. There was more, too, about Celeste. She was his friend and he had failed to protect her. And there was a part of himself, he realized, that saw her as more than just a friend, and this only made his feelings of guilt worse.

Would she come to any classes today?

The professor came in, opened her briefcase, began arranging her notes. And then Weston saw Celeste, out of the corner of his eye, stepping into the room. He pulled his backpack off the seat next to him, hoped she saw him.

She did, said hello as she slipped into the seat and opened her bookbag. She looked better today, in an attractive blouse and skirt, her hair neatly set back in a ponytail. More like the Celeste he knew.

"Hello," he said back to her.

She smiled at him and began to take notes as the professor started her lecture.

#

She sat beside him and wondered how much he knew. That something had grabbed her, certainly. That it had held her in the water and then let her go. She knew he knew this because he had been there, had been grabbed also. But did he know what it had done to her, that it had gone into her? Did he know she had climaxed?

Maybe. No way to know unless she asked him, and she wasn't going to do that.

He didn't know about her second trip back to the beach, anyway. She was sure of that, and she wasn't about to tell him she had gone.

Why had she gone?

She still wasn't sure about that. It was still hard to believe; yesterday had been so fuzzy. She had slept long and hard last night, though, and woke up at nearly noon today feeling fresh and good. It made no sense but it was true and she wondered why even as she reveled in the feeling. Maybe she was just waking up from a bad dream, and none of it had happened.

But it had. She knew her body, and she knew that something had been in her.

Now she shifted a bit in her seat without thinking. She wanted to deny it all, but the truth was there. It had felt good, really good, whatever it was.

And that was why she couldn't tell Weston. God knew what he would think if he knew she had actually climaxed with the thing, had actually gone back, not knowing what it was, because some part of her wanted more.

God, he'll think you're the worst sort of slut.

Class ended and she began to put her notebook back into her bookbag. He was watching her. She reached up, drew a stray hair back around her ear. She smiled, then, shyly, and looked away.

"Lunch?" he asked. His voice was tentative.

She nodded. This was uncomfortable. He didn't normally have to ask; they always grabbed something at the student union after psych. But now he had and she knew why; she shouldn't have snapped at him yesterday but she had. There was more, too. Now as she looked at him stand, and as she stood with him and they walked out of the lecture hall together, it occurred to her that she was seeing him differently. Or maybe he was different. She didn't know.

All she knew was that she was looking at him like a man, and that the sight of him as a man was good.

They reached the union and went through the cafeteria, found a table. A few moments passed and they ate in silence. She looked up at him occasionally, then back down. Part of her hoped he would say something and part of her was afraid he would.

Finally he spoke.

"I'm sorry about yesterday."

She looked up, shook her head. "No. It wasn't your fault. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

He looked down at his food again. "It's just that I was worried," he said. "After what happened...."

Celeste felt her face redden, wondered if he could see it too. She reached out without thinking, took his hand in hers.

"Please, Weston. I can't talk about that. We're both all right and that's all that matters."

He looked at her, the skin of his hand warm beneath her fingers. She felt her heart beating rapidly at his touch.

He nodded then, though his eyes told her he wasn't satisfied with what she had said.

"Thank you, Weston," she said softly.

#

The ones in the tiny ship spent the day in the building and found it ideal. There were three floors, each sectioned into rooms, each room occupied by two females. Below, there was a basement which included a large room that would be ideal for arming large numbers, and the entire building was filled with the same sort of narrow ducts that the biomass had found in the first building. They found quickly that they could reach any room in the building through the ducts.

It was active now, with females moving in and out of the building and the rooms, sometimes alone and sometimes in pairs or groups. A few males came in also, but these were always escorted by a female and it seemed that at the entrance there was a door the males were unable to pass alone. Those on the small ship noted this with satisfaction; avoiding the dangerous males was an added benefit to this place.

There was much to observe. The sentients in general and the females in particular had a large number of behaviors. The materials they wore over their skin as protection from the sun or cold, for example, seemed to consist of at least two layers. The criteria for which to wear, however, seemed to vary widely and the materials were even worn indoors.

Individual behaviors also varied widely, though a few behaviors were common and seemed important to the sentients. At one point the biomass sat silently at the end of a duct and watched as one female entered a room wearing a single piece garment that wrapped around her, which she then used to dry herself off. She then set the garment aside and pulled another, smaller one over her reproductive area. This garment was pink and ornamented.

Interesting. The garment appears to have both a symbolic and a practical function. At the moment there is no environmental reason for her to wear it, and yet she does.

It seems directly associated with the reproductive area of her body. Could the garment perhaps be designed to attract mates?

The broadcasts we have seen would seem to indicate so. But here it also seems that the sentients are comfortable wearing such garments even when resting alone.

We must assume the garment has other, symbolic importance to them. Note that in every case we have encountered them they have been wearing such garments.

The arming procedure will cause significant disruption in their lives. It will perhaps help them if we make certain that this particular symbolism is observed.

Agreed.

The female sat down now, on one of the padded platforms. She took a small bottle of red liquid and began to paint the tips of her toes. After this she blew on the toes, then put on more garments and stepped to the mirror and began to paint her face and toy with her hair. Those on the tiny ship watched this for a time, then moved quietly down the duct to continue their survey.

#

Time passed, became evening. They sensed the return of the female they had already armed, walking with the male who they had also armed. Through the telemetry of their weapons, those on the ship noted that the male went with her as far as the door and then left. The female continued inside, up the stairs and to one of the rooms, where she remained. Those in the ship tracked her, moved their biomass to the vent at her room, watched through the grate there.

A second female was there. The two communicated for a time, and then each went to a place by each padded platform and sat before another platform. They were doing something there that did not require movement, something with motions and odd tools that seemed to have no immediate result.

After some time they communicated some more, then went through a series of rituals that involved changing the garments they wore, then lay down on the padded platforms and turned off the lights in the room. The beings on the ship considered this.

The telemetry of the armed female indicates she has entered a rest cycle. The second female seems to have also.

We are prepared. We have synthesized several trillion weapons. Once the sentients are armed we will be able to direct them to continue the process.

Slowly the biomass extended delicate tentacles and began to unscrew the grate. It was time now, after all their preparation, to proceed with the war.

SIX

Celeste curled up beneath her blanket and closed her eyes for sleep. It was dark in the dorm room, though not totally; after her eyes had adjusted she could make out the dark frame of the door, the desks, the shape of Vicky's bed across the room. She was tired but felt good. It had been good to spend time with Weston today. Like old times, though behind it all there was still the question neither of them dared ask, the thing they didn't dare discuss. What had happened at the beach? She found herself wondering if perhaps the thing, whatever it was, had violated him too.

Without meaning to, she closed her eyes and thought back to the beach, to the second time, when she had gone willingly. It still defied logic, defied reason. Animals like the thing that had attacked her simply didn't exist.

She sighed softly, wishing she could forget how it had felt. Her eyes still closed, she rolled to her side and pulled her covers more closely around her. Maybe I should talk to Weston about it, she thought.

A faint noise came from the other side of the room.

Nothing much, just the sound of metal moving against metal, and only for a second.

Probably nothing, Celeste thought, enjoying the warmth of her blankets.

Then the noise came again.

She turned this time, opened her eyes. Across the way, Vicky still seemed to be sleeping. This wasn't a surprise; Celeste had early on found that her roommate could sleep through anything, even the loud music that the girls next door sometimes played on weekends.

The sound came a third time, a bit louder. Celeste turned her head a bit, saw movement at the vent near the roof between the two beds. There was something there, something dark, hard to distinguish in the dim light. It took a few seconds for realization to dawn.

Oh, God....

She opened her mouth, drew in a breath to scream. Yet as she did Celeste felt her chest tighten, as though her muscles were no longer her own. The scream came out as a whimper of terror as she saw the dark thing move down the wall and settle quietly to the floor, writhing as it did, tentacles emerging, wiggling as they moved toward the beds.

Celeste watched, paralyzed and mute, as the tentacles hovered over Vicky's bed for a moment, then as they struck. One wrapped quickly around the girl's neck, snapping like a whip with the motion, a second driving deeply into her mouth. Celeste saw Vicky's eyes snap open, her head arching back in surprise as she brought her hands up to grasp at the tentacle around her neck. With this there came a muffled cry, but that was all.

More tentacles came up, wrapping around Vicky's wrists, pulling her hands away. Celeste could hear the air rushing in and out of her nose as she struggled, escaping in quiet whimpers as another tentacle pulled back her blanket and bedsheets, revealing her struggling, writhing form.

She was wearing, as was typical, a cotton camisole, her large breasts pressing out against the material as she struggled, her long legs thrashing as two more tentacles gripped her thighs and held her still.

Another tentacle emerged from the dark thing now, moving slowly and deliberately up as the two tentacles holding her thighs pulled them apart. Vicky tensed, her back arching as she saw the thing, struggling again as it moved down between her parted thighs, as it became clear that she realized what it was about to do. Celeste watched in frozen horror as the thing moved up and under the tiny camisole, her gaze locked on her roommate as she knew from her writhing that the thing was pushing Vicky's panties aside and touching her vulva.

Vicky jerked then, hard, against the tendrils that held her, and Celeste knew that the tentacle had driven up into her. With almost demonic efficiency it began to piston in and out, the motion of her squirming body almost surreal in the dimness, her moans becoming more and more intense, more and more frequent. Her body was shivering now, trembling, still fighting but more and more her writhing becoming more sensual, as though she was no longer fighting the thing but was rather embracing it.

Then she moaned again, loudly, against the tentacle in her mouth, her entire body spasming in a way that Celeste knew only too well, and she knew that Vicky had orgasmed, hard, against the thing that still drove in and out of her. She was whimpering again now, whimpers of passion, as the thing mercilessly drove into her, and then she came again, crying out around the tentacle, and then again.

For several more minutes Celeste watched helplessly as the thing ravished her roommate. Then, without thinking, she reached up and pulled her own blanket and bedsheets away.

She did not know why she did this. It was like before, on the beach, when the urge had come to spread her legs and she had, only this was more compelling, as though she was in a body not her own, as though it was controlled not by her but by someone else.

Like a puppet, she thought as she sat up in bed and pulled her pajama bottoms down. I'm a puppet to this thing.

She stood, hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down to her ankles, stepping from them and the pajamas. Then she turned, wondering if Vicky was watching her as the thing still drove her from one orgasm to another, and bent over the side of her own bed, raising her bottom up and spreading her legs. She felt as a tentacle worked its way up her thigh, caressing gently at the outer folds of her exposed labia, and she shivered a bit as it did and as she felt herself grow moist. From across the room she heard Vicky orgasm again, even as the thing pushed its way into her, driving deeply. Celeste whimpered, felt control returning, just a bit, as she began to helplessly squirm with sudden pleasure as she was taken.

He body was her own again but this did not matter. As she orgasmed suddenly Celeste wanted only to enjoy, to react, to moan helplessly. She squirmed as the tentacle swelled within her and pistoned in and out rapidly, wet with her sudden lust as she felt another orgasm build, gasping in air as she moaned again, loudly, even as another tentacle came up and pushed its way into her mouth, even as she cried out against it, her body spasming suddenly with her orgasm.

Behind her, Celeste heard Vicky climax again, still whimpering helplessly.

#

Celeste moaned around the tentacle in her mouth. It had not driven in deeply, only enough to keep her from screaming, first from fear, now from desire as she orgasmed again, her body spasming, her vagina tight around the thing inside her. She felt it ejaculate again, and with this she spasmed again in pleasure. She knew she could control her muscles again; it did not hold her but it did not need to. But the pleasure was all there was to her now, over and over again as the thing ravished her.

To her surprise she found herself sucking on the tentacle in her mouth. It had only a faintly saline taste and was the texture of hard rubber, and its presence, though intrusive, was not unpleasant. Yet the very presence of it was new; though she had talked about oral sex with her friends, Celeste had never done it. Now she found herself caressing the tentacle with her tongue and sucking, moaning as she did so, as orgasm after orgasm swept over her.

Again the tentacle between her thighs ejaculated, remaining hard after it had done so, its thrusting action never stopping. It had again raised a ridge to correspond with her clitoris, and with nearly every thrust Celeste felt her body spasming with pleasure.

Celeste whimpered and sucked harder as she came again. Her terror had been replaced by lust; what this thing was or why it was taking her didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was that it continue.

#

The armed female responded well to direction, remaining in place quietly and allowing the biomass to subdue the second female easily. The armed female also ceased her resistance quickly, which allowed the important neural reaction to proceed naturally, enhancing the process of charging the weapons. The tendrils in the mouth had been a later idea in recognition that these were social creatures and that noise would attract attention, even during a rest cycle.

The second female fought for a time, but it still did not take long for the neural reaction to occur. This female was slightly different than the first, her reproductive system a bit easier to penetrate. The weapons were assimilated into her system easily, and with several more neural reactions they too began to glow with power.

Excellent. Is the second female controlled?

Yes.

We must proceed with arming others. They are most vulnerable when in their rest cycle.

Agreed. Focus all attention on the process.

They finished with the two, directed them to return to their rest cycle. Then the biomass moved back up the wall and into the vent. There was much to do, and the night was short.

#

It was dark now, save for the dim light of the clock radio by Fran's bed. Kathy Jackson entered her room quietly, careful not to wake her roommate. It had taken several hours in the computer lab, but her term paper was finally finished. She supposed sometimes that she studied too hard, that she ought to get out more, maybe do some dating.

Maybe. But a high GPA could mean grad school, and that was a tempting thought too.

She closed the door, blinked against the dark, stepped to her bed. Unbuttoning her blouse, she pulled it off, removed her jeans and bra. She always kept her nightshirt under the covers of her bed, and now she pulled them back and reached for it.

Something moved, behind her. Kathy heard it, turned.

Fran was sitting up, looking at the thing that had fallen from the wall. Kathy heard her gasp, draw breath for a scream, even as she did likewise.

Neither managed. In an instant Kathy felt something thick and rubbery shoot out of the thing and force its way into her mouth, and in the dimness she saw the same had happened to Fran. Then there was another thing wrapped around her neck, a third reaching her wrists even as she struggled to pull it away.

Fran whimpered, and Kathy saw as more tentacles emerged from the thing and pulled the covers off her body. Fran was about her size; well curved and feminine. Now Kathy saw tentacles emerge to wrap themselves around her thighs, then felt the same against her own, gripping her tightly. She was pulled down to her bed and Fran went out of sight, even as she began to struggle furiously.

What is this thing? she thought frantically.

An answer of a sort came quickly. Something moved up the inside of her thigh, moist and long, and Kathy suddenly realized what this thing, whatever it was, intended.

Oh, God!

She thrashed, cried out against the thing in her mouth, struggled. But the grip of the tentacles was tight and after a moment she felt as the thing reached the thin crotch of her tiny panties. She moaned helplessly as it pressed against the spot, then as it pushed the material aside and touched at her vulva.

It was gentle, and the moisture around it provided its own lubricant. Kathy cried out against the thing in her mouth as it pushed up into her, filling her as she writhed against it.

Behind her, she could hear Fran moaning, and Kathy knew that the thing had taken her as well.

It can't be! It can't be!

With deliberate motions the thing began to piston in and out of her. Kathy moaned, still struggling, as she felt it drive deep, a ridge of bumps rippling against her clitoris. It swelled up inside her, filling her tightly, and suddenly she felt it ejaculate into her, the fluid filling her with a warmth she had not expected.

She struggled again, trying to deny the sudden feelings of pleasure.

This wasn't possible!

Then she orgasmed, suddenly and without warning, her hips spasming even as the thing continued to thrust into her. She cried out as she did, the sound emerging from around the thing in her mouth as a muffled moan.

She felt it ejaculate again, and as it did she climaxed helplessly. When at last, several orgasms later, it withdrew, she found that a part of her, a very real and important part, wanted it back.

#

Nicole Edwards was dreaming, deep in sleep. She was on horseback, riding beside the surf, her long blond hair flowing behind her. There was a cool breeze in the air, blowing over her, and she parted her lips to take it in.

Something came with it. Thick, rubbery, caressing her lips as they parted, pushing gently into her open mouth, filling it.

Nicole gasped, cried out, heard only a muffled moan. She was awake now, groggy, and she gasped again as she felt things wrap around her neck, her waist, her thighs, her wrists. She struggled, held down tightly to her bed, her eyes coming open to see her covers gone in the dimness, crying out in fear as she saw the tentacles pull her thighs apart, her thin nightshirt riding up over her hips as they did.

Another tentacle appeared now, arching up between her legs, as though it was looking down at her groin. Nicole moaned, strained against the things holding her, biting down against the thing in her mouth. Across the room she could hear Chrissy thrashing, moaning.

The thing moved, slowly, and Nicole tried to draw her hips back to escape it. But the hold of the tentacles was too tight and she felt it touch at her crotch, caressing her gently. It was moist, and seemed to explore carefully, nosing against the lips of her labia, almost as though kissing them.

She moaned, squirming still, as it pushed slowly up into her, filling her deeply. With a whimper she tried to pull back again, shivering helplessly as it began to thrust. She could feel ridges form on the thing, rippling against her clitoris as it invaded her, as it drove deep.

No! she thought, still struggling. This can't be happening!

The thrusting intensified. Nicole gasped for air around the thing in her mouth, writhed suddenly as she felt her body begin to react to the invasion, her vagina gripping tightly to the thing, her own moisture forming as the tentacle spurted up into her.

She climaxed, her hips spasming up, sudden pleasure ripping through her body. With a loud moan she struggled again, her concentration wavering with the warm, intense feelings that swept through her.

The thing spurted again, and in unison Nicole climaxed with it, screaming now against the gag. Then a third time, a fourth time, a fifth.

When it was through and at last she slept again, horses were far from her mind.

SEVEN

He was having trouble sleeping. He never had had trouble before, even when his roommate snored, but he was having it now.

Perhaps, he thought, it was the weekend, the noise outside his dorm room.

But that had never bothered him before.

He thought of Celeste.

He hadn't seen her, not since Friday, not since she had rebuffed his last try to talk about the beach. Yesterday he had called, but there had been no answer, and when he went by her dorm it had been locked and no one had answered when he had rung the buzzer.

Not that it mattered; men had to be escorted in there anyway.

Now his alarm went off again, and Weston finally swung his legs over the side of his bed and glanced at his clock.

Shit! He had slept through breakfast.

#

Word came from home that morning.

Hurry. The enemy has reached two more worlds. We cannot defend much longer.

#

She wasn't in psych class on Monday. Weston took notes carefully, trying to stifle his yawns. It was hard to concentrate, hard to pay attention. He kept thinking, trying to figure it all out. What would grab you like that in the water, do what the thing had done?

To him?

To her?

Class ended. Weston shuddered, not knowing. He stuffed his notebook into his backpack and hurried out the door, across campus to her dorm again. There was something in him that was scared, suddenly, for her, for him, for all of them.

But the door was still locked, the building still silent.

#

Word again, that afternoon.

We have introduced the weapons into the water supply system for this area. Telemetry indicates that the local populace is being armed as planned.

Excellent. Synthesize new weapons and proceed to arm the larger urban areas of the planet. We will remain here and concentrate on the continued production of offensive weapons.

There is little time.

Yes. Maximize the weapon production.

#

Night came. He sat outside her dorm, looked up at her window. It was dark there, and in all the windows around it. He took a walk around the building.

All the windows were dark.

Even the office.

This is wrong. This is all wrong.

He stood for a while, looking at the darkened dormitory. Then he moved away to find a phone.

#

The boy was there when Jackson pulled into the lot. Just standing, his hands in his pockets, looking at him. Jackson parked, shut off the lights, opened his door and got out of the patrol car. The boy stepped forward.

"You're the one who called the police?" Jackson asked.

"Yes sir."

Jackson pulled his flashlight from his belt, turned the beam on the boy. The boy blinked.

"Don't I know you, son?"

"I don't think so, sir."

Jackson held the beam steady. "Let me see some ID."

The boy produced his student identification and with the name came recognition.

"You were the one who brought his girlfriend into the hospital the other day," Jackson said. "Sent me out on a wild goose chase. Are you just making more trouble?"

The boy squirmed under the light.

"No sir.... Please, sir, there's something wrong in the women's dorm --"

"What? They won't let you in for a panty raid?"

The boy looked down. For a moment Jackson wondered if he ought to bring him in for prowling, let him spend the night in jail, scare him straight.

"No, sir. It's just that all the lights are off, and no one answers the buzzer, not even the office."

Jackson glanced over at the building, then back at the boy.

"Maybe the power's just gone out."

The boy shifted in his place.

"Maybe," he said softly. "Could you check it out, officer? I'm worried."

Jackson watched the boy for a moment, then glanced back at the dormitory. It was odd, he had to admit. Every other building around here had at least a few lights on.

"All right," he said, and he handed the boy's ID back to him.

EIGHT

Was it Monday?

She wondered as days went by if this was really real, if it was really life. How long had they been captives here, all their lives breaking down to the single, simple routine: sleep, time to shower and go to the bathroom, and then the long walk down to the basement?

The long walk. It was the call, when your body moved and you were only a passenger, down the hall and down the stairs. A summons you had no choice but to heed.

And which, after two or three of them and what followed, you would have obeyed willingly.

Vicky slept a lot, except when her call came and she would rise and go, and in the hall the other girls were like her when Celeste saw them; moving down the stairs or up to their rooms or to the bathroom, their faces displaying no expression at all as they did.

Once, as she and Vicky lay in their beds, Celeste had spoken.

"What does it want? Why is it doing this?"

There was a pause. Then Vicky answered, her voice, even, flat, emotionless.

"I don't know."

Vicky sat up, looked at her. For a moment Celeste saw recognition in her friend's eyes, as though she remembered, as though she knew. Then her eyes glazed over again and she shook her head. "What are you talking about? I have class tomorrow, Celeste. I need sleep."

"The thing...." Celeste insisted.

"For God's sake, girl. Go to sleep. You're having a bad dream." Vicky lay back in her bed and closed her eyes.

Only it wasn't a dream. It was something with them but not with her. Like they would remember, talking about it in hushed tones, and then forget. Forget the day, the week, where they were sometimes, like something was fogging their minds.

But never her; Celeste remembered everything. Now she suddenly felt her body move, like she was a puppet, and she rose from her bed, slipped into a fresh pair of underwear and stepped to the door.

The basement beckoned as she moved down the hall toward the stairs.

NINE

Theirs was the quiet dorm.

Some of them began to emerge on Tuesday, coming into the dining hall and sitting quietly amongst themselves. They said little, only ate and left, going to their classes and saying nothing while there. A few people tried to approach them, tried to talk, but these were only answered by a stare, first by one and then by the others and the conversations went nowhere.

Rumors began to circulate around campus.

Druggie Dorm. Bitch Brigade. Bunch of lesbians.

If they heard these things, the women of Williams Hall gave no sign.

Weston heard the rumors too. He said nothing, though, only watched for Celeste, but she did not emerge. He called again and her roommate answered. The woman's voice sounded strange.

"She's not here."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I guess she left before I got up."

"I missed her at dinner. Is she all right?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't she be?"

He left a message, asking her to call him back.

This was wrong and getting more wrong every day. Weston remembered the policeman, how he had gotten into the dormitory and then how he had emerged a few minutes later, saying nothing, only getting into his car and driving away. He remembered the look on the man's face, like he wasn't quite there.

No explanation.

Nothing.

#

It was getting late now, the sun setting over the ocean. Weston had sat through his classes, barely hearing the professors as they lectured, taking notes without thinking. The thought had come that morning, when he had said hi to Nicole, the girl who lived just down the hall from Celeste, and she had said nothing, only had stared straight ahead as she walked past him, like she was a puppet.

I have to get in there, he thought. I have to know she's all right.

There was a window on one side of the building that was often left ajar. He had passed it a hundred times and had never thought anything of it; a lot of buildings on campus were behind on their maintenance. Now, however, the window came first to his mind as he walked by it a few times in the fading light, trying to look inconspicuous.

God, he thought, you could get into so much trouble for this.

#

Midnight came, then one AM, two AM. It was time.

Weston slipped out the door of his dormitory, zipped his dark coat up tight as he made his way across the campus to the women's dorm. He had none of the tools one might associate with a burglar; in truth he didn't really know what those might be. Instead he had his small flashlight and pocketknife.

The women's dorm was still dark as Weston approached it. Trying to be as quiet as he could he circled it once to be sure no one was nearby, then moved to the small window.

He pulled at it. It moved a little, then a little more.

Not enough. He cursed softly, pulled harder. The window opened with a squeak.

Weston cursed softly, fought the urge to run.

Silence. Then something more, from inside. He leaned forward, listened.

A faint moan seemed to whisper by his ear.

#

It was wide enough after the third try for him to squeeze inside, but only after taking off his coat. Pulling his coat in after him, Weston took out his flashlight and scanned the room. It was some kind of storage closet; a mop and other janitorial supplies filled it, and a few mattresses were leaned against the far wall. He saw the door, moved to it. On the other side he heard to moaning intensify.

What if it's locked?

He tried it. It came open. Shutting off his flashlight, he peeked around the edge.

A short hallway, no door on the other end, opening to one side. It was light down there, and hints of motion played in the shadows along the facing wall. The moan had become louder and had become several, echoing down to him.

Weston swallowed, took a deep breath, and stepped from behind the door. Carefully he moved down the short hall, to the opening at the end of the hall. Inhaling again, he peered around it.

It was the recreation room. He had been here before, with Celeste, and they had played pool and watched TV on the large screen at the far side.

Weston gasped, pulled back, sudden trembling shooting through him. And without meaning to he looked again.

Where the pool table had been, and indeed filling half the room, was a thing.

There was no other way to describe it. It was large, running down the middle of the room, a giant red and black mass that looked like rubber, hundreds of tentacles extending from it, all animate. But there was more, too, and as he watched, unable to tear his gaze away, Weston felt terror like he had never felt before.

For in addition to the thing there were girls in the room.

At least a dozen lay naked on their backs on the thing, held in place by tentacles, their thighs pulled widely apart. And with each a single red tentacle was pushing up into her vagina, pistoning in and out. Each girl was moaning, and even as Weston watched one of them cried out, spasming around the thing, and then cried out again, moaning. Another girl followed.

There were as many on their stomachs as well, bent over a ridge in the thing, similarly held and also naked, their buttocks high and thighs parted and as with those on their back each girl had a tentacle thrusting in and out of her vagina. Weston saw two cry out at the same time, also spasming helplessly.

A moment passed, perhaps more. The cries and moans of the girls filled the room. Weston sat, transfixed, terrified, a part of him wanting to rush into the room and drag the poor girls away from this monster and another part wanting only to run. And even as he went to his knees, face pressed against the wall as he peered around the corner, he saw as the tentacles released four of the girls, and saw as the girls rose, backing away from the thing, their movements stiff. He ducked back for a moment, afraid they might have seen him.

What in God's name was this thing? Shivering with fear, he looked back again.

One of the girls on her belly cried out, her moan muffled. Weston's eyes went wide as he saw that another tentacle had filled her mouth, and that this one as well was thrusting in and out, even as the girl struggled to suck at it.

Another moment passed. The girls who stood now moved to the far end of the room, to the door there, opening it. His gaze followed them and as the door opened Weston gasped.

Celeste.

She stood at the entrance, and as he watched she stepped into the room. There were five other girls with her but he scarcely saw them at all; instead his gaze followed her as she moved. She wore only a tiny pair of bikini panties, sky blue, and as she moved Weston felt his heart cry out, unable to tear his gaze away as she stepped before the thing and pulled her panties down her long legs, stepping from them and kicking them away in a little ball of lace. He whimpered softly as she moved forward, lying on her stomach on the thing, and as the tentacles wrapped themselves around her even as the other four girls, one clad in a thin pair of tap pants and the other three in bikini panties, stood before the thing and likewise stripped for it.

Weston whimpered again, a bit louder, trying to pull his gaze away, as he saw a tentacle move up between Celeste's legs and after a moment push into her vagina. He heard her cry out as this was done, and at this he finally tore his gaze away, unable to bear more.

Because he suddenly knew that he loved her.

#

The distinctions between night and day and between yesterday, today and tomorrow, had all faded. There was a day and a night, she knew, for she could see that at times it was bright outside her window and that at other times it was not, but this no longer mattered; rather, her schedule alternated between a deep, fathomless sleep and the walks down the hall and stairs to the basement, when her body ceased to be her own and she would simply go and spread her legs and have the tentacle thing take her, and there would be orgasm after orgasm until, after what seemed endless time, it would release her and she would return to her room.

It fed her, too, her and the others. While they were being taken another tentacle would move up and into their mouths, and it would spurt a sweet fluid that they swallowed.

After the first day, Celeste was grateful for this; it kept her screams of passion down. It was hard to admit, of course, but there was no denying what this thing made her feel. She was hot, all the time, and only wanted sex, hard and fast and never stopping, wanted things pushing into her vagina, her mouth, into her and making her squirm and orgasm again and again.

She was not alone, though no one ever talked about it. The others still didn't always remember, still seemed to think that tomorrow there would be class and their papers would be due. But Celeste knew that they too were being used by this thing, that, like her, their days were spent being taken by it and resting, again and again.

Even when they did remember they usually didn't want to talk about it. Celeste wondered if this was because none of them wanted to admit how hot they felt when the call came.

That's all we are, she thought. Just things for it to fuck. It controls us like puppets, uses us, makes us orgasm. That's all.

And the thought came without her asking. And it is good, feels good. I want it to do me like this.

Her time came. She could feel the call, could feel her body moving of its own accord, and like before she seemed only a spectator as she rose from bed and stepped across the room to her dresser and pulled out a pair of light blue bikini panties.

For some reason it always had them wear panties when it called them downstairs. These were all they wore, were all she had worn in the longest time. It made little sense that the thing should make them do this, but it was a constant and you could always tell which girls were going down to be used and which ones were coming back because the panties of the latter were invariably wet with recent lust. There was no shame in this, though, in your body, in admitting you got hot and wet because of the use, because it was true of everyone, and you knew that when you came back upstairs your panties would be wet too.

Celeste slipped the panties on, turned and stepped out the door. As she walked down the hall Kathy stepped in beside her, then Patricia and Jenny. They said nothing; neither did she; even if they had been able to speak there would have been nothing to say. They were joined by a girl from the second floor and the five of them descended to the basement.

#

She stepped through the open door and into the recreation room. The thing, whatever it was, was large, filling the center of the room. It had formed itself into a soft, comfortable platform, and from each side the tentacles grew. Sometimes you would like on your back atop it and sometimes on your stomach; it seemed to have no preference but rather it made you alternate from time to time.

Four girls went by as she and the others came in. Their skin was flush, the flesh of their nipples erect as they moved. They had the same look as all the others, like they were puppets, but there was life in their eyes too, life you could see, and Celeste knew that they were exhausted from the hours of orgasms they had just felt, and that soon they would each slip into a long, deep sleep.

Celeste stepped up to the creature. Without thinking she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, peeled them down her legs, kicked them away in a little ball. Stepping forward, she lay down on her stomach on the thing, feeling her breasts press against it, the ridge rising up against her hips, supporting them as she raised her buttocks up and parted her knees, aware of how helpless and sexual the position was. She felt the tentacles wrap themselves around her limps and waist, securing her even as she felt the final tentacle, slick and wet, moving up the inside of her thigh.

Control of her body returned, as always, and Celeste felt herself tremble in anticipation.

She moaned softly as the tentacle caressed her moist vulva, her hips shifting in need. Then it pressed into her, penetrating deep and hard, eliciting a soft cry that she barely noticed as it filled her. Her limbs tensed against the tendrils as feeling rippled though her, the tentacle pumping rapidly in and out of her.

The orgasm came quickly, then in quick succession, another. Celeste cried out with each, her body spasming with the impossible pleasure of it, feeling as the walls of her vagina rippled against the thing, feeling as it spurted up into her, shivering as it continued, mercilessly, to pump her.

To one side she heard Jenny climax too, her voice echoing through the room.

"Oh please... oh please.... OH!"

Celeste moaned, feeling a third orgasm rise, knowing there would be many more as the tentacle drove hard into her, its rippled edge bouncing over her clitoris as it did. Someone else, further down, orgasmed loudly, and then Celeste did too, crying out as well, again feeling the hot liquid shoot up into her body.

The scream came then.

A man's scream, filled with rage and fear, coming from behind her somewhere. A dull thud beside her, as though something was beating against the rubbery surface there. She felt the tentacle around her waist tighten, the pumping continuing unabated.

Then, behind her, a sound like the snap of a whip, then another. Another cry, still a man's, and then there was an instant of shadow as something passed over her head, the tentacles in front of her rising to meet it, to pull it down roughly to the floor. Celeste looked up and gasped.

Weston.

He still held the broken mop handle, even as two tentacles struggled to pull it away and two more whipped around his free hand and legs. Celeste tensed against her bonds, her eyes on him even as a tendril ripped the handle from his grasp and pulled his arm to his side, pinning it with the other.

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, even as she orgasmed again, screaming out in sudden shame as her body betrayed her.

TEN

The men had arrived the day before in a black sedan and a black van, parking beside the police station. The door to the sedan opened and one of them emerged, tall and well dressed, walking into the building and up to the front desk, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

A few minutes later he was in the chief's office and the door was closed.

An hour later every police officer on duty in Evansfield knew they were here and every active case file was open to them.

Jackson was among those who were alerted the next morning.

Cooperate, ladies and gentlemen. These men are seeking a dangerous fugitive.

#

Deep in the biomass, the ones in the small ship consulted.

How did he get in? Why were we not aware?

We failed. In our urgency to produce the weapons we neglected to follow his telemetry.

You know we cannot alter his memory; his weapons were installed before the modifications, as they were in the female he was attempting to reach.

We cannot release him, then. Not after what he has seen.

Should we terminate him?

They considered this through the night, holding the male in place as they did.

#

For Weston, the night had become a nightmare. The tendrils held him tight, right there, so close to her and to the others, and as hour after hour passed he watched the naked girls cry out again and again as the thing took them. And he knew that they could see him too, that she could see him, and that he had failed.

After a while another tentacle rose up, pushed its way into Celeste's mouth, muffling her moans as she sucked on it, the movement of her hips just visible to him, indicating that the thing was still pushing into her.

She whimpered, spasmed again, her eyes brimming with tears.

He wanted to speak, to tell her he was sorry, but the words just wouldn't come.

#

Observe.

The telemetry of his weapons; look closely.

What?

Combine the telemetry with the point of his gaze. When he looks at the female, there is a predictable reaction.

Elaborate.

We understand his emotions. He wants to consider her his mate.

They paused, reviewed. This was a breakthrough.

Can we use this knowledge to extrapolate a way communicate with him?

Perhaps. We must try.

Observe the two of them further.

#

Celeste orgasmed again, moaning around the tendril in her mouth, and then again in quick succession. It had been hours, as always before, the time losing meaning in the wave after wave of pleasure. A time would come, she knew, and her body would become a puppet again, and the thing would release her and she would put her panties back on and make the agonizing climb back to her room, to crawl into her bed and sleep until the thing summoned her again.

Only now it was different.

He was here.

Celeste blinked away the tears and looked at him, feeling herself redden with shame. There had been a certain sense of unreality to this before, like it was all simply a long, erotic dream, but this was Weston, her friend, who had come to help her but instead had only been able to watch as she rutted like an animal with this thing, as she came again and again, deep inside enjoying the hard penetration of her intimate, feminine place.

How could he ever be her friend if he knew she was this kind of a slut, so easy to lay?

She looked down, feeling naked and dirty inside as she climaxed again.

#

In time she felt the tentacle withdraw from her vagina, felt her body stiffen as the thing took control of her again, felt the tentacles that bound her draw away. She stood, backed away from the thing, and as she did she saw Weston watching her and could see the tears that streaked down his face.

The self doubt grew inside her.

How will he ever respect you now?

She reached down, found her panties and pulled them on, felt the moistness from her vulva seep into the crotch.

Shame! Hot, wet slut! You even enjoyed sucking it off!

On the other side of the thing she saw Weston again, saw the fear in his eyes as his body stiffened, and as he stood and as the tentacles that bound him drew away she knew that it controlled his movement too.

Two other girls rose. As they and Celeste moved toward the door Weston fell in with them. The door opened; Vicky and three others stepped in, saw him and said nothing, only moved to the thing and stripped as Celeste and Weston and the others walked up the stairs, the door closing even as a girl still on the monster climaxed loudly behind them.

The other girls stopped at the second floor, padded down the hall to their rooms. Weston stayed with her as she reached the third, and as she walked down the hall to her room. It was unlocked and he went in with her.

Just as the door closed behind them the thing's control of her body vanished.

Celeste stumbled. She was exhausted and the control had been all that had kept her up. But as she fell she felt arms, strong arms, catching her, holding her.

Him.

"Celeste?"

She began to whimper, feeling her body redden with sudden shame, suddenly naked and vulnerable, trembling as he guided her to her bed. Protectively, she brought her hands up to cover her breasts.

"Please don't look at me," she moaned. "Please don't."

He hesitated for a few seconds, and she could sense his fear. Then he reached behind her and pulled up her bedcovers, wrapping them around her shoulders to cover her.

"It's all right," he said softly, and then he hesitated before speaking again. "I won't look."

The thought came to her unbidden. Of course he won't. He just saw you making hot love to a thing for six or eight hours. He knows what a whore you are.

She began to cry suddenly, sobbing as she buried her face in the blankets.

"You don't think I'm pretty?"

His answer came quickly, certainly.

"Oh, God, Celeste. Of course I do. You have to know I do."

She felt his arm go around her, pull her close to him, felt his body through the thick blankets, felt him close as she wept, not knowing why she did but just doing it. And she felt as he lay back with her on her bed, holding her close as she sobbed and rocking her gently to sleep.

ELEVEN

Special Agent Winters sat in the command center of the police department and stared at the map of the town. They were here, he knew, somewhere. He could feel them, their heat, their power.

And this frightened him.

It had frightened the others, too, even so far away, the sun of this world burning only as a very bright star, the little world that had so loudly invited them to come and feast on its thought, on its soul.

It was power that frightened him, raw, terrible energy from the weapons they knew well, the weapons that had driven them away from other victims, from other worlds. Only this was that power amplified, building, power that was so hot that they had sensed it even as they approached, the planet itself still much too far away to be visible.

Power that was so great it seemed all around him. Power that had justified the tremendous expense of energy needed to send he and his comrades ahead, to get here quickly, to stop it before the others arrived.

It was here, Special Agent Winters knew. In this little settlement, somewhere. That much he could tell.

They had noticed right away that the bodies of the inhabitants were armed against them. Special Agent Winters could sense this, in the policemen around him, in the people on the streets. But the weapons had not yet taken hold in them and he knew that these ones could still be consumed.

And they will be, he thought. Once we have used them to help us eliminate the source of the power. Then we will eat them all, bit by bit.

He returned his attention to the map.

The energy must attract attention, he thought. This species is too social not to notice something with this much energy. Something different. Perhaps it is something they notice but that we do not. Any odd behavior.

Special Agent Winters smiled. The police here were efficient, clever. It had taken several days for he and the others to burn into the FBI team, to design a story about a fugitive and to arrange to have themselves sent to this settlement. These police would find where this painful glow was coming from, and then he and his team would seek it out and destroy it.

Deep inside him, that bit of something that was actually Special Agent Winters, that had once been Special Agent Winters, that had once been a father and a husband and an FBI agent, writhed a bit in its pain, and the invisible tendrils that had become Special Agent Winters took a moment to enjoy the man's agony, jabbing a hot point of pain into the man's soul.

Soon, there would be billions to enjoy this way.

#

Weston slept too, finally. And he dreamed.

A voice, from somewhere, talking to him.

It's all right.

"Who are you?" he asked in his dream.

It's all right. Don't be afraid.

"Who are you?"

Who are we?

"What do you want with us?"

Answers came now, too many too fast. Not words but more than words. Ideas and concepts that he could not understand.

Afraid. Be afraid. Not afraid. Us, of us, not of us.

In his dream he turned and ran, the words that were not words being too much.

Her! it screamed as he snapped awake. Protect her!

He looked at Celeste, sleeping beside him, wrapped in her blankets. There was an innocence to her face now, and he felt her skin, soft against him. Without thinking he reached over and pulled an errant strand of hair from her face. She mumbled something in her sleep and pressed closer to him.

#

Jackson didn't like the FBI man. There was something about him that was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Now he sat alone with him, paperwork between them.

"Tell me about the boy," Winters said.

"I did. He's a college boy. He and his girlfriend got drunk on the beach and she passed out. He brought her to the hospital. I checked the beach."

Winters regarded him with cold eyes.

"I mean about his story."

"What story? He probably had sex with her and was afraid he'd committed date rape. Came up with some drunken story about an octopus. She didn't press any charges, so we dropped it."

"An octopus? Do octopuses regularly rape young women in these parts?"

Jackson looked at the man quizzically. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

Winters looked back at the report.

"So the boy had a strange story, and you checked it out and found nothing."

"That's right."

"Did you interview the girl later? Follow up with the boy?"

"Why? She said there was no rape, so there was no case. Kids in college get drunk and fuck all the time. What does this have to do with your fugitive, anyway?"

Winters watched him for a moment, his eyes still cold.

"I will catch my fugitive my way, officer Jackson. You will cooperate. Do you understand?"

Jackson shrugged. "Sure. Whatever you say."

Winters stood, put the report under his arm, and left without a word. Jackson watched him go and shook his head.

#

It was dark outside when Celeste awoke, and dark in the room, but she knew he was there, could feel him beside her, his breath rising and falling evenly as he slept. At some point in the night she had snuggled close to him, the blanket falling open, and now she could feel the fabric of his shirt against her bare breasts and belly.

It felt good to have him so close, and for a few minutes she simply closed her eyes again and savored him there.

She knew the call would come soon.

Finally she rose, careful not to wake him, and stepped to the door. Vicky had come in at some point and was also sleeping, and she mumbled something in her slumber as Celeste stepped outside and padded down to the bathroom.

It was empty, almost eerie in the quiet. She used the toilet, then stepped to the shower, turned it on and let the warm water rush over her, took some soap and scrubbed herself clean. Her labia were sensitive and she was gentle with them, and with her breasts.

What is this? she thought. I have to figure this all out.

It's using us for something. Maybe it gets off making us come like this.

Maybe. But is it wrong?

Part of her said yes right away. No meant no, they had always said, but that was for boys who got too aggressive. What rules could you apply to an animal like this?

Does it matter?

Another part of her said no. Whatever it is, it makes you feel good. It hasn't hurt you, any of you. It just fucks you and feeds you. And you know, even if you won't admit it, that you love what it is making you do.

Celeste moved her hand down, touched herself intimately, trembled at the sensitivity there, caressed gently.

After a time she rinsed herself, shut off the water, stepped out.

Another girl was there, naked also. She looked at Celeste and Celeste looked at her; neither made any attempt to hide their nakedness. Such a thing seemed silly anymore.

"Do you know what is going on?" the girl asked.

Celeste shook her head. The girl spoke again.

"I get so hot, all the time. I just want it to keep doing me. It's the best sex I could ever imagine. Why does it want me to keep coming?"

"I don't know."

"I thought it was Saturday," the girl said, "but I can't remember. I don't think it's Saturday. I keep waking up and no one is here, and then I wake up again. Do you know what is going on?"

"Maybe it's all a dream," Celeste told her.

#

She had just closed the door to her room when the stiffness came again. Again as before she felt herself step to her dresser, take out a pair of panties and pull them on. On her bed, Weston still slept, and she tried to hold her gaze on him as she stepped out the door again.

Sleep, she wanted to say to him. There's nothing more you can do.

She and four others came in, replacing five who left. At least twenty more girls were on the thing, half on their backs and half on their bellies, each moaning as the tentacles pistoned in and out of them, as more tendrils caressed and held them. Celeste and those with her stepped to the empty places, stood before the thing. She felt her fingers come up, pull her panties down, felt herself step from them. She shivered now, knowing that her labia were already moist with anticipation, and she moved as it directed her, lying on her back, spreading her thighs widely. The tentacles came around her, pinning her, and two more caressed over her breasts, pinching at her nipples even as she felt the wet tendril slide up her leg.

It paused, as always, at her exposed vulva, caressing gently.

She moaned, her hips shifting, body tensing in need against the tendrils that held her, every cell focused on that one place, hot and wet and feminine, begging the thing to take her.

It nuzzled her vulva, lovingly. The tendrils on her breasts tightened.

"Oh, God...." she whimpered.

And then it thrust, deeply. Celeste screamed out in pleasure, climaxing instantly, her hips spasming helplessly as she felt the thing fill her.

Don't stop don't stop don't stop....

TWELVE

The dark van was still there as Jackson arrived at the station in the morning. He gave it a passing glance and stepped in the door, moved in the direction of his locker.

The chief met him halfway there.

"Winters wants to see you. In my office."

Jackson followed the man. There had been something about his voice that bothered him, like maybe he wasn't too happy about all these FBI agents either, snooping through case files that were supposed to be confidential.

Or maybe it was the fact that Winters had appropriated the man's desk and chair.

The door closed behind them.

"Sit down, officer Jackson," the FBI man said.

Jackson did so. Winters had the daily log in front of him, ran his hand over it as he spoke.

"On Friday night at eight fifty seven you responded to a call at the university. Something about a problem in a dormitory." He looked down at the log, then up at Jackson again. "What was the nature of the problem there, officer Jackson?"

Jackson thought for a moment.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"The call at the university. Williams Hall. What was the nature of the call?"

"I wasn't on duty Friday night."

"It says here you were. The chief verifies it."

Jackson watched the man, for the first time feeling himself becoming unnerved. He was trying to remember, to think back to that night. What had he been doing?

"You took the call, officer Jackson. Must we play the dispatcher's tape?"

He shook his head. "No.... No.... I just don't remember."

"It was less than a week ago, officer. Are you aware that there have been other curious calls about Williams Hall? Are you aware that several professors at the university have noted repeated absences by the women living in this dormitory?"

Jackson shrugged. "I didn't know. Is there a case here?"

"You tell me. You were first on the scene. Think, officer. Our fugitive is a known sexual predator. Did you find him in that dormitory and cut a deal with him? Should we notify Internal Affairs?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Winters' gaze cut into him. "I'm not talking at all, officer. You will be doing the talking. What happened on the call?"

Jackson closed his eyes, thought hard. There was the boy, he remembered suddenly. The same boy who had brought his girlfriend in from the beach. He remembered being irritated.

He relayed this to Winters.

"The log says that you called in from the other side of town at ten ten," Winters said. "You said you had a headache and you went off duty. What happened between eight fifty seven and ten ten, officer?"

Jackson shook his head. "I don't remember," he said.

Winters sat back looked at him closely. "I see. Do you have a brain tumor, officer Jackson? Is there some other reason your memory is impaired?"

"No!" Jackson snapped. "I'm fine."

"I see." Winters reclined comfortably in the chief's chair. "You seem to get the strange calls in this city, officer Jackson. Octopus rapes and now odd memory loss. And all with that boy from the university. Perhaps we should bring him in for questioning."

"All right," Jackson said. "Maybe we should."

Winters smiled. He seemed amused. "Except that he is missing, officer Jackson. He has been missing since Tuesday night. Now isn't that odd?"

Jackson let his irritation show now. He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and stared the FBI man in the eye.

"And what am I supposed to do about that, Special Agent?"

Winters' smile remained. He spoke slowly.

"Make sure you are wearing your kevlar vest, officer, but leave your sidearm here. We are going to investigate Williams Hall. Your chief wants you there in case your memory improves."

#

Still Weston dreamed. No words anymore, but images, images and feelings.

Danger. Somewhere nearby, but where, where?

Down there, the basement? he thought.

No.

Somewhere nearby, but where, where?

Closer! Closer!

Words again.

Protect her!

#

There were five of them, in the van, sitting silently as they drove. Winters looked them over. They had been an elite SWAT team before he and his kind had taken them, burning into them, feasting on their thoughts and joys and souls as they became the men, and now they were armed like an elite SWAT team, checking their weapons carefully. Jackson and the chief were in a squad car, following with a group of the local police. Support, they called it.

Winters spoke.

"We will secure the perimeter. Nothing is to escape. When we have ascertained that this is the source of the energy signature, we will enter the building and kill every living thing in it. If the local police attempt to interfere they are to be neutralized, but do not kill them unless you have to. They have weapons and could interfere, and there is no reason to waste perfectly good victims. We will feed on them and this entire settlement when we are finished. Are we clear?"

Each man nodded. The van sped on, the lights atop it flashing.

#

Around her, the moans had stopped. She wasn't sure when, or how long it had been. But the thing had withdrawn from her and Celeste felt her body relax, felt the tentacles draw away.

No, she thought. Not enough. Do me more. Please.

The other girls were rising, all of them, pulling on their panties and moving for the door, up the stairs. Celeste stood, did likewise. She looked back as she moved; the thing was silent; for the first time since she had seen it no girl lay atop it, no tentacles moved, no cries of passion echoed through the room.

A pang of regret rolled through her

Is that all? You make us feel like this and then die?

She turned to the door, took a few steps up the stairs.

Weston met her there. He was carrying her nightshirt, the one she always left hanging on the base of her bed, and he handed it to her.

"Celeste! Put this on! We have to get out of here!"

THIRTEEN

The police secured the perimeter with impressive efficiency, hurrying a few students away from the building even as Winters opened the back door of the van and emerged with his men. Jackson and the chief approached him. The chief held a megaphone.

"Do we call him out? Tell them to empty the building?" the chief asked.

Winters looked at him. His face was almost a sneer.

"No. My men and I go in. He's in there. I can feel it."

"Isn't that a risk?" Jackson asked. "There are probably also innocent students in there."

"So you do remember, officer?"

"It's a college dorm. College students live there. I don't have to remember anything to know that."

"By now our fugitive has probably raped and killed most of them, thanks to you," Winters said coldly.

The chief stepped forward. "That's enough," he said. "FBI or not, you will not talk to my people that way."

Winters' hand flexed, formed a fist, then relaxed. His voice softened.

"My apologies, officer. I am ... somewhat stressed. But I have studied this man for several months and I believe that the approach most likely to result in a capture and minimize the risk to civilians is for my men and I to handle this. We are trained in these situations."

The chief nodded, though he didn't look convinced. Jackson watched them both.

This isn't professional, he thought. We should have figured this out back at the station. Why are we talking about it now?

Winters turned to two of his men. "You're with me." He turned to another, an squat, muscular man with a long, black rifle. "Keep us covered."

The man nodded.

Winter and the others turned, began to move forward.

Jackson saw it just as they did.

The door to the dorm opening, a figure emerging.

The sniper to his left raising his rifle, centering it in.

A male figure that Jackson recognized, reaching the first step of the building.

The man's finger squeezing the trigger, gently, just like they taught you.

"No!" Jackson screamed. "It's just the boy!"

#

He just reached the sniper, bumping the rifle down as the shot went off in a single, deafening roar. He saw the boy spin with the impact of the bullet, once around and then to face them again, flopping to his back by the door. Jackson stumbled, went to his knees. He looked up.

And the sniper was over him and the butt of the rifle was crashing down on his face.

Winters then, and the chief, and the three SWAT men, all standing over him.

"What the hell are you doing?" the chief screamed at Winters.

The man did not answer. Jackson felt himself pulled up roughly by the two FBI men, slammed against the side of the van. He tasted blood in his mouth from the blow of the rifle butt.

"That was a civilian," he growled.

Still Winters was quiet. Then, suddenly, his submachinegun was pointed at the chief's chest.

"Your weapon, chief. Now," he said.

"What?"

One of the others stepped forward, jabbed the chief in the gut with the butt of his submachinegun. As the chief doubled over, Winters reached out and with an expert motion relieved him of his service revolver.

"Cuff them and gag them," he said to the others. "Leave them in the van until we're finished."

#

Weston had gone first, had insisted that he go first. He had stepped through the open door, just ahead of her, had just reached the steps.

It had just been a loud pop, like an engine backfiring. But then he had been spinning and falling and it was all like slow motion and she had screamed at the sight of it as he tumbled to the ground by the door. And then she had gone to her knees, just inside the door, her back to the wall.

Her body was hers now, all hers, and she was paralyzed with fear.

Weston! Weston!

Air came, shallow breaths. Somehow she knew that he had been trying to warn her, not about the thing in the basement but about something else, something more frightening than even that first time, when the thing had taken her in the water, when she had been afraid she would drown and had been so ashamed as it touched her so intimately.

He had tried to protect her and now he was gone.

And they, whoever they were, were coming to kill her too.

Her hands were trembling, her legs also. Breathing became more and more difficult as she waited to die.

Gunfire then.

Not one shot, not this time. This time it was a roar as the windows by the door exploded in shards of glass. Again and again, all around her. The potted plant by the office door disintegrated in a mass of ceramic and dirt and green, the bulletin board following quickly.

Celeste screamed again. Instinct took over and she crawled through the chaos to the stairwell, barely feeling the cuts form on her hands and knees and feet as she moved over the glass. The terror was beyond words now, beyond thought, beyond reason.

For some reason she went down, back toward the basement.

#

Weston saw. He heard.

Am I dead?

He could hear his own breathing, short and gasping. His left side was numb and he wondered why. There was the sky overhead, a few fluffy blue clouds.

A pretty day for your last day, he thought to himself.

Then there was a roar, a screaming roar overhead. The sound of machine guns, of shattering glass. But it all seemed so distant, as he lay there and wondered why it was so hard to breathe, and as he saw the men in dark clothes and helmets step over him, moving with intent into the dormitory, back the way he had come.

One stopped, stared down at him for a moment with cold eyes, then moved on.

And the clouds overhead had moved too, just a little bit.

FOURTEEN

Celeste ran now, down the stairs to the basement, into the recreation room, pulled the door closed behind her. She could feel her heart pounding as she did, as she looked around the room for something to bar the door with.

Nothing.

She whimpered, felt the trembling begin again. The gunfire had stopped behind her.

She looked up.

Across the room, the thing was moving again, its tentacles twitching in agitation.

#

She is not ready. We do not know if her body has had time to fully assimilate the weapons.

There is no choice. The enemy will kill all of the females.

Use of the weapons before she is ready may kill her.

Then she will be a sacrifice of war. Proceed.

#

Despite her fear, Celeste felt her body react to the sight of the thing. It did not control her now; her need was her own, despite the shock and terror. She took a step forward, then another. Her breath was coming in whimpering gasps, her hair in her face, making it hard to see, her legs nearly giving out as she moved.

Oh God, she thought, please... please....

She heard the sounds of movement on the stairs outside the door.

One tentacle extended from the thing, touched her bare arm. It was gentle, almost loving, soft against her skin. She whimpered and stepped closer, her legs growing weak as she slipped to her knees. The door was just visible to her right as she did, her hands close to her chest now, shivering.

She felt something behind her, felt the tendril move, slick and wet, felt it move up and under her nightshirt, touching at the crotch of her panties, pushing them aside even as another tentacle move up beside it, pressing wet against her clitoris even as a third nuzzled its way up between her buttocks. Two more then, up and around her breasts, the ends sucking gently on her nipples as they squeezed.

Then, without warning, the first tentacle drove up hard into her vagina.

Celeste orgasmed instantly, screaming out, falling forward, her arms catching her by reflex, then her elbows as she weakened. The world became hazy as she felt the thing ejaculate into her, its juices hot, and she felt tears well up in her eyes as motion from the stairs echoed to her ears.

Footsteps, coming down.

And then, she saw.

Red lines, almost like a grid, expanding out from where she knelt. Almost like she was outside herself, watching from above. Everything in the room suddenly became known to her. Location, size, mass, weight, composition.

Beyond the room, then, out and out. The three men on the stairs, at the door, moving quickly. The shattered entrance, every shard of glass, every deformed bullet. Upstairs, every girl in her room, terrified. Weston, lying by the front door, the bullet in his chest. The van and the two men in it, handcuffed hand and foot, watched by a third.

Everything. Everything. All clear.

And in the three men coming down, and in the two behind them and the two breaking down the door of the back entrance of the dorm, and in the one who sat a vigil in the van, Celeste saw something more.

Things made of something. White and hot and hungry. Enjoying the pain in each of the men, the pain from deep inside, the pain from a place that cried out, pleading, begging to be allowed to die. Things impossibly thin, impossibly minute, imbedded in each man's brain, in his mind, in what he was.

All this took a microsecond. In another five seconds the door came open with a sharp bang. The three men stepped inside, the red targeting lasers on their submachineguns scanning the room quickly.

Seeing her. Seeing it.

Celeste screamed out. The tentacle was pumping her mercilessly, the second tendril caressing her clitoris, the third pressing against the sensitive area around her anus as the two around her breasts squeezed tightly, the tips sucking hard at her erect nipples. And with every thrust she climaxed, spasming helplessly, the tentacle ejaculating up into her in an almost constant stream, the liquid running down her thighs as it mixed with the moisture of her own arousal.

Explosions around her, loud, the noise snapping off the walls of the room and back again, as one of the men began to fire. Celeste noted each of the bullets as it moved, as it ripped into the tentacled mass, blowing chunk after chunk of it away. She noted another man raise his weapon, noted the red spot from his laser fall on her.

Still the tendrils pumped. Still she came, again and again.

Her face was on the floor now. She turned her head and looked at the man who held the gun on her. All was known to her, on the red grid.

And then.

#

It was?

No words. Words were not, are not suitable.

Think of a star, exploding. Loud beyond sound, bright beyond light. Think of matter, ejected at lightspeed, a crack so loud it even echoes in a vacuum.

Think of these things and they will be, almost, what it was.

Almost.

Celeste was. She was the center, the source. Even as each orgasm became each other, sustained energy ripping through her, she felt herself above it, the red, all seeing grid in her mind's eye showing her clearly as a billion needles, impossibly tiny, ripped out from her, passing at the speed of light into and through the three men, into the things inside them, burning those things into nothing in an instant. And as the men fell in their places the needles shot outward, passing harmless through the walls and the roof, through the two men who were behind the first three and the two men in the back hall, burning them clean as well, out and out and through the people who had gathered, drawn by curiosity to the gunfire, through the man inside the van, burning away the tendrils in him too, and still out, still farther, in a sphere that extended up past the ionosphere and down to the mantle.

And then, and then, in the haze of it all, it ended. In the men who now lay on the floor before her, there was only what was left of themselves, that which was human, curled now into fetal positions, weeping in pain, their guns fallen beside them.

Silence.

The pumping stopped, the tendrils withdrew. Celeste felt her panties move back into place and she fell to her side, unable to move.

Slowly, as she trembled, her body aflame with her passion, the tentacles and the soft rubbery platform she had lain on so many times began to break down, to dissolve. She watched, moaning, her groin and thighs wet with what it had done to her, as it disintegrated into a mass of dark mush on the floor.

"Please...." she whimpered.

A thing floated up then, a small thing, shiny and about the size and shape of a quarter, hovering above the dead mass. It remained there for a moment and she watched it. Somehow she knew it was watching her too.

Then, quickly, it flew out through the open door and away.

FIFTEEN

She came down from her ward every day. Sometimes his family was there, his mother, eyes swollen with tears, or his father, trying to look strong even though you knew he wasn't, not inside. His sister, too, just sitting. They would look up as Celeste entered, maybe smile.

Walking still wasn't easy. She remembered the police coming into the recreation room, snapping orders to each other, checking the room and the three men who still lay quivering on the floor, making sure to get their submachineguns away, and then the paramedics, trying to check her. She remembered crying out, the slightest touch setting off spasms as they lifted her onto a stretcher and took her away, out of the building and under the warm sun and into the ambulance. When they tried to check her genitals at the hospital she cried out, orgasming uncontrollably, again and again and again, thrashing on the bed.

The first full day she had simply lain in bed, her thighs spread widely and her hospital gown bunched up around her waist, her labia red and wet and swollen. She couldn't stand, didn't want to move, and was unable to tolerate anything touching her down there. Sometimes she orgasmed anyway, for no reason, thrashing and moaning loudly.

The nurse was a kind, heavyset woman and she would hold Celeste's hand when this happened, and she made sure to keep the door closed.

The next day was better. Celeste could tolerate a bedsheet and they didn't have to keep the door shut. Mom and Dad had flown in and were here too, and they held her hand and brought her things to eat and drink.

After three days she was making her first efforts at walking. Vicky was in the next room, and they were about to discharge her. Celeste came inside her room as she gathered her things. Vicky looked up as she did.

"I remember it all now," Vicky said. "I just wish I knew why it happened."

Celeste nodded.

"Not that it was all bad," Vicky went on. "Nobody but the other girls saw it when it happened and it wasn't like it was a man who did it, like it was someone trying to hurt us. I don't know how but I know it wasn't trying to hurt anybody. And I'd only dreamed about orgasms like that before." She zipped her bag up. "You going to be back at school soon?"

Celeste shrugged now. "I don't know. I have to think about some things."

Her roommate smiled, picked up her bag and stepped toward the door. Then she paused, hesitated. "You know," she said, "it did teach me one thing. There are things about men we take for granted. While that thing was... doing me, I kept thinking about that. No matter how good it made me feel, it wasn't a man. It didn't have a man's... something. You remember Jack, Andy's friend? He seems like a nice guy. I think a nice guy would be good right now. Think I'll look him up."

Vicky hugged her, then left.

That was when Celeste started coming down from her ward.

#

Weston regained consciousness after five days. Usually it was only for a while, but the doctors said it was good, said that in time and with a lot of rehab, he would recover. He had lost a great deal of blood and the bullet had narrowly missed his heart. The first time he saw her, he had smiled weakly when she took his hand.

It was quiet in his room now, and his family wasn't there. Celeste padded in, up beside his bed. He was sleeping, looking so very small with the bandage on his chest and the IV drip running into the needle in his hand. She stood there, just watching, the moments ticking away as she stared down at him.

The time will come, she thought. She would hold him close and they would make gentle, passionate love. And then she would lie in his arms and there would be nothing in the world that would matter besides him and her, holding one another, kissing one another, talking as only they could.

Because Vicky had been right; she had put into words what Celeste already knew. Like Vicky, she would always remember the orgasms, would always remember how after a time it felt so good to know that you only lived to orgasm, again and again, choice and thought and reason no longer mattering.

Celeste felt warm, suddenly, between her thighs. Maybe that was a gift from this thing, she thought. Maybe you'll always orgasm easily.

Or maybe....

Maybe it was Weston.

Because she knew it was true, that he would always be much, much more than the thing in the basement had ever been able to be. He had his smile, his laugh, his words and his touch.

Celeste leaned over, drawing her hair back behind her ears as she did, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

He was her friend.

INTERLUDE

Far away, they felt it.

The blast, the energy, exploding outward from the surface of the distant world. And they knew as they felt it, as ripples of it echoed outward, that those they had sent ahead had failed.

There was a taste in the energy, though, a part of the sentients that those approaching the tiny star and tiny world had not sensed before. The minds of these creatures, so filled with imagination and thought, with emotion and passion, would be particularly pleasant to consume, and even more so with the painful tint of energy added to them. It would take much to overcome them, but in the hot white violence of the approaching war there would be a pleasure in the killing that they, spread in tendrils across a vast spread of space, had rarely felt before.

They increased their speed. There was reason in their movement now, purpose.

The sentients, and their world, must die.

What pleasure that would bring.

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