“Falcon One. Directive remains. Containment breach imminent. Reactivation necessary.”
I frowned. “Containment of what?”
It paused, like it was deciding how much truth we could handle.
“Biosynthetic weapon prototype. Omega Strain.”
The air went thin.
The younger pilot’s face went gray.
“You’re saying there’s a weapon down there?” he whispered.
“Negative,” it replied. “There was a weapon. Now there is something else.”
The ship jolted violently.
Something slammed the hull from beneath.
Alarms blared. Lights dimmed.
“Damage on the lower deck!” someone shouted.
“Seal compartments!” I barked, grabbing the manual override.
The engineer stumbled. “It’s following us!”
On sonar, the massive contact kept pace with us.
Then it stopped.
The crystal turned a deep, sick red.
And the voice said, calm as a prayer:
“Containment breach neutralized. Transfer commencing.”
The ship’s systems began shutting down one by one.
Controls froze.
Power flickered.
“It’s taking over!” the engineer yelled.
