Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Deadly Mimicry
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The usually desolate hangar inside the ship was buzzing with activity from the technical team members.
The tech crew had been overwhelmed with a massive workload in recent days—it felt like they needed twice as many bodies to keep up. Orders had come from above to service every single onboard fighter.
"Hey, Scott. It's dinnertime. Let's go grab some food."
"Yeah, just finishing this up."
The blond man called out to his dark-haired colleague working beside a fighter. Scott set down his wrench and stood up.
"How much is left?"
"Enough for overtime."
"Ugh, fuck."
The two headed to the mess hall with the others.
"I still don't get it."
"What?"
"Why the hell are we tearing apart every plane when we don't even fight?"
Pincher, the blond guy chewing on artificial meat that tasted like eraser, scowled.
"Scott, you asshole. Do you have to bring work into every damn meal?"
"Come on, doesn't it bug you too, Pincher? Think about it."
Here we go again.
Pincher sighed as he watched Scott launch into yet another of his tireless conspiracy theories.
"What's it this time?"
"I heard something. They're saying the brass is after a Metallic Gremlin."
"Metallic Gremlin?"
Pincher snorted in disbelief.
"Dude, if we ran into one of those, we'd get wiped out. The upper Capital guys are shitty, but they're not idiots. They'd run, not fight."
"Hear me out. The thing is, the Metallic Gremlin's already onboard. The bosses know and they're desperate to catch it."
"What?"
"You noticed that weird smell in the air lately? That's supposed to be Metallic Gremlin stench."
"That's ridiculous..."
Pincher shook his head.
Scott wasn't entirely wrong—there had been a strange smell aboard lately.
But if the air was really contaminated, the ship AI would've flagged it ages ago. Pincher hadn't heard a peep about any air quality issues.
"Just listen. My buddy in the kitchen crew said people have been vanishing one or two at a time since last week."
"Bullshit."
He'd hoped for better, but no dice. Pincher was dumbfounded by Scott's nonsense.
The ship's crew numbered 222—not a huge group. If folks were disappearing daily, it'd be obvious.
And were the higher-ups morons? No way they'd sit idle with subordinates vanishing. Like Pincher said, the Capital team leads were assholes, but not brain-dead.
Pincher dismissed it as Scott's delusions, but then someone chimed in—Cameron, sitting next to them.
"I've heard something similar. Logistics team leader went missing."
"For real?"
"Yeah. Cargo manager got promoted to acting team lead because of it."
"See? Told you, Pincher!"
Scott lit up like a kid with backup. Pincher's face twisted like he'd bitten into something rotten.
"Fine, say people are vanishing. Why's the top brass sitting on their asses?"
"They know, but they're covering it up to avoid panic among the crew."
"Exactly! It's the Metallic Gremlin!"
"Gremlin my ass. If it's chowing down on people, what does that have to do with fighter maintenance?"
Cameron shrugged.
"No idea. I just heard about the disappearances."
"...They're working us to death to keep discipline?"
"Tch, you lunatic. Figures it'd be you."
Pincher clicked his tongue at Scott, who scratched his head with a dumb look.
Meal time ended, and the tech team returned to their posts.
Time dragged on until nightfall.
Team members trickled out one by one, leaving the vast hangar eerily quiet, as if the earlier bustle had been a lie.
Scott and Pincher were wrestling with a single fighter in the corner.
"Scott, grabbing midnight snacks. What do you want?"
"Pass. Synth booze if you've got it."
Scott was under the fighter, loosening bolts with his wrench. The silence was deathly—everyone else had clocked out.
"Scott."
"Yeah?"
As he swapped parts, someone called him.
"Cameron?"
"Come here a sec."
"I'm in the middle of work."
"Just a minute."
Scott was swamped, annoyed by Cameron's summons.
He vowed to curse him out if it wasn't important, then crawled out from under the fighter. The open space held only planes and toolboxes—no Cameron.
"Call me over and then vanish?"
"Here. Hurry up."
Cameron's voice piped up right on cue, like he was guiding him.
"Maintenance room?"
What a pain in the ass. Scott grumbled his way there.
The maintenance room was dark.
'Thought I heard him from here?'
He tilted his head, figuring it was a mistake—then Cameron's voice came from deeper inside.
"Scott. Over here."
"Doing what in the dark?"
"Looking for something. Help me out."
Scott flipped the switch—nothing. Central control must've cut power late at night.
He pulled his waist flashlight instead.
Its beam pierced the dim room. Gripping it, he stepped inside.
The pitch-black maintenance room felt oppressive. Metal shelves groaned under piled parts and tools, ready to avalanche at a nudge. The floor was littered with snuck cigarette butts and dried synth booze stains—filthy.
And the smell. Oil on tools, lead from soldering irons, unwashed male sweat—all manner of foul odors permeated the space.
Amid the familiar stench, Scott caught something alien.
'What's this smell?'
Handling metal daily, he noticed it: air laced with iron tang, but off—something else mixed in.
"Where the hell are you?"
"This way. Here."
Odd. The voice had been near the door earlier; now it echoed from inside.
Following it, he wove between shelves. No light in space void meant pitch black without the flashlight.
He nearly tripped.
"Fuck?!"
A loose bolt on the floor. Regaining balance, realization hit.
Even with the light, darkness blinded him. So what was Cameron doing in the black?
The mess hall chat resurfaced.
Metallic Gremlin prowling. Missing people.
Scott's voice trembled unwittingly.
"C-Cameron?"
No reply.
As he turned to flee, it lunged.
"Scott?"
Pincher returned with snacks, puzzled by the empty fighter area.
Scott was weird, but diligent at work. He never left unfinished tasks.
"Scott!"
His shout echoed through the silent hangar.
"Here."
A response drifted from somewhere.
"Where? Got your synth booze."
"In the maintenance room. Come here."
"Maintenance room? Why'd you go there?"
"Need to find something. Help me."
Correction: Scott was diligent at work, but a hassle personally. Pincher trudged over, grumbling.
"What, no lights?"
"Something to move. Help."
"Ugh, idiot."
Flashlight in hand, Pincher entered the black room. Faint light flickered beyond shelves—Scott's beam.
"What're you—huh?"
No Scott. Just his abandoned tools.
"Why's this here?"
Pincher grabbed the flashlight. No sign of Scott anywhere.
Then, liquid dripped on his neck.
"What?"
Leak? He touched it—hot, sticky.
Beam on his palm: blood.
Bright red.
Drip from ceiling: blood droplet.
Throat tight, his shaking light swung up.
There it was.
A meter-long thing clutched Scott, dangling from the ceiling.
It resembled a Galleron, the space dragon of myths. Devouring Scott like a fable wyrm.
The creature reaching for Pincher was his last memory.
After that day, no one saw the three techs.
'Am I a natural at fishing?'
I sat in the dim maintenance room, munching a human leg. Its owner lay sprawled, neck and spine ripped out.
"Mimicry. So damn convenient."
Pincher's voice—its owner's—issued from my mouth.
Redworm Larva Gene Essence absorbed.
Imitate recently consumed target's voice (short phrases only).
Mimicry.
Among the creatures the Logistics head tried smuggling: Redworm larva.
Redworms—ultra-rare giant worms from desert planets. They boast a prized trait.
Perfectly mimicking other creatures' voices. Evolved for efficient hunting in harsh environs.
I devoured the container-held larva, luckily netting its gene essence. Now, a complex vocal organ nests in my throat.
'Downside: it's a degraded version of the original.'
Unlike Redworms, I can't ape any voice. Only the most recent meal's. No Scott or Cameron impressions now.
Complex sentences? Nope—short phrases or words only. Lengthen it, and growls mix in, birthing monstrous garble.
'Still, damn useful.'
A raspy adult male voice from my maw felt novel, awkward.
Testing it a few times, I pondered the next mark.
'Tomorrow, Kitchen crew. Pierre, right? Not tight with Pincher, but whatever.'
Strangers heed their name called. Dinner tomorrow: Pierre bait.
He won't know his idle chatter doomed him.
Meal done, I slunk runway-ward, into wall vent.
'Detour to nest?'
Crawling ducts, I veered to lab.
To see Bubble Amoeba—my "No. 26."
Nearing lab, its waves hit me.
My rear tendril buzzed. I'd deemed the Psionic Organ useless—wrong.
Unexpectedly, it enabled psychic rapport with wave-communing beings.
Gaming days, I chased efficiency—ignored minor traits like this.
'Never picked one for Bubble Amoeba chats anyway.'
A must-have for Bubble Amoeba fans, not me.
Anyway, it greeted; my turn. Focused psionic organ—tendril writhed, gathering unseen energy.
Chatting sans sight revealed new intel.
'Its vocabulary's grown.'
Bubble Amoebas don't evolve—adults just bulk up, no real change.
Yet No. 26 transcends, conveying complex ideas impossibly. And improving rapidly, like studying.
'Psionium experiments? Hidden effects?'
Psionium or special specimen? Unknown. Its smarts don't hurt me, so ignore.
Gloomy vibes from it.
Made sense. Its sole joy—my calorie bars—amid endless tests.
'Post-growth, can't deliver anymore.'
Lab security now reactor-tier post-Kisaragi vanishing. Security cranked max.
Vents once safe now risky—vibration sensors everywhere. One wrong move: caught.
Thus, distant chats only.
Post-Kisaragi death, Psionium tests stalled. Subs run them, but milder doses.
Still, even traces poison it.
'Tch. Hang in there.'
I wanna help, but risks too high. Even with strong traits, full crew war's suicide.
Subadult at least for guerrilla ops. Then, I could wipe exosuit squads easy.
'But Subadult conditions suck.'
Need 10 each of two sapient species. Ship's humans only—stuck.
'Pirates maybe.'
Space Dogs cartel decides my evolution. Some mono-species; human one wastes it.
'Days at most.'
Ship vibe screams imminent Space Dogs clash. Techs I ate pulled all-nighters on fighters.
En route to nest, group passed below: soldiers and Crisis Management Team Leader.
"Got business. Dismissed."
"Sir!"
Post-salute, Arnold Russell walked alone.
'Should eat the Crisis guy too.'
Tough nut, so delayed. Perfect timing—scout weaknesses, patterns.
I trailed him.
Destination: gym. Soldiers, crew pumping iron inside.
'Workout?'
Quick change, he hit machines for strength training. Watched 10 mins—nothing but reps.
'Pass. Others.'
No need watching prey sweat. As I turned, he pocketed something post-set.
'Phone?'
Earphone comm. He scanned room—ignored—plugged in, resumed workout.
Intrigued, I focused Psionic Organ on him.
"...Contact... C...sector..."
Choppy at first, clarifying.
"Yes. Proceeding as planned. Yes. Yes. What?"
'Plan?'
"Orders from the family? No, sir. How dare I question?"
Brief dismay in his eyes, swiftly masked.
"Perfect anyway. Kisaragi miss eliminated. Ship hits C-08 on schedule. Yes. Captain Yuseong's orders all recorded."
'What?'
"Yes. Yes. Fine. All for the family—no, Lord Jeongu Yujin's will. Understood. Yes. Roger."
Hung up, back to workout. Typical gym rat.
But my wariness maxed.
'Thought he was a bear. Total fox.'
I knew he nudged the captain toward Space Dogs linkup.
Call hints deeper schemes.
Boon or bane?
From shadows, I watched silently.