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Forced to Procreation by Tegeli What ever dreams I had in the hibernation, were replaced with the acrid stench of the chilly facility interiors. My vision was blurry and my limbs numb, but I could sense I was being moved. The facility AI had stated the current date. Concentrating, I understood that it was still a dozen weeks before my shift would start. When I was placed on the autodoc, terror surged through me. If my body had worked already, I would trashed around. Something must have gone wrong. People in hibernation weren't slowed that much: with longevity treatments, even a hundred weeks of sleep could be tanked without noticeable impact in active lifespan. I must have developed a medical condition critical enough to be ripped out of hibernation. "What... is going on?" "Your mental patterns have been determined to be most fitting for this project." Everything was cold, as I lost my consciousness. I. OUT OF THE STORAGE I was awake. I was alive. And yet, even beyond the soreness I felt odd. My chest was weighed down by mounds of flesh. I lifted my head and saw the distinct absence in my groin. Maybe I should have been proud of how quickly I managed to calm down. But then again, I had been specifically trained to freak out only after collecting all the data. I had the wall-screen shift into a mirror. At least I could still recognize parts of my body, so I wasn't the victim of a brain-transplant, or worse, a mental upload. My hair was the same colour, even if it now reached below my neck. My eyes remained the same, though my nose, lips and jawline were decidedly more feminine. My shoulders had never been noticeably wide, so they were mostly unchanged. Yet they seemed narrow compared to my now clumsily wide hips. The ribcage had been shifted and compressed, so my waist was thin. Yet despite that, I had a small paunch. In fact, I was almost plump now, with the meaty ass and thighs. They must have overfed me in the hibernation in order to prepare for the operations. The least they could have done was remove the excess when they were done, though. The most noticeable fat deposits were the breasts. Despite their firmness, they drooped low due to their immense size. I was made uncomfortable aware of them by every movement of my torso. And my groin. I wasn't an expert, but based on the faint seams made by the paleness of the skin tissue, the vagina was a fresh transplant. The nerve-works had been successful, and everything was sensitive, in the way I assumed it should be. Loss of my balls was perhaps the most frustrating: I had wanted to have children sooner than later --perhaps even right away after getting off this rock and finding a partner-- but regrowing fertile testicles was a precision tailor-job. And growing and transplanting a functional uterine system just wasn't a thing that was attempted. I had only heard about partial implants to women who had suffered accidents. Whoever had done this to me must have wanted a living sex-toy. I cursed a pointless question to nobody in particular, and walked to the door. Maybe I wouldn't like the explanation, but I still wanted one. The door slid open. Behind it, a man, one of the mech-engineers, smirked at me. I didn't know the guy beyond that he was vapid enough to build massive musculature and liked going out in a enviro-suit, meaning he was always busy when the extra-facility equipment failed. He placed his hand on top of my chest and pushed me back into the room. I barely managed to stay on my feet. "What the hell, dude?" I was embarrassed by the new girliness of my voice, but I kept my face stern. He just grinned at me, until I became conscious of my state of undress. I moved my hand to my groin, and started to move my arm to cover my breasts, but decided against that. They weren't my tits to be bashful about. "Care to tell me, what the fuck is going on?" I demanded. "Thanks, now you ruined it." He sighed but his smirk didn't disappear. "I was going to pretend you were just a normal horny girl, trapped on this research station all alone. But... To be frank, I'm so pent-up I would have fucked the old you in a gown. You were always pretty. Now, you are just my type: a breathing woman." Shivers went through me, and I took a step back. "You guys can't have gone stir-crazy in one shift!" "I've been awake for five now." He shrugged. "Fine, I'll tell you. Basileia initiated a lock-down after system-wide comms shut down." "That can't happen!" "It did. We tested it thoroughly. Basileia isn't insane, at least not insane enough to merely pretend all humanity save us has been wiped out. So, she took over on a permanent 'preserve humans' routine. Anyhow, we guys were getting understandably ornery, considering she keeps all the girls --all the whopping two dozen of them-- locked up tight so they don't get molested." He was slowly taking steps towards me, while I backed away. I cursed under my breath. The mech-engineer continued, "Basileia might have a plan on increasing fertility until some sort of convoluted breeding plan could be sustainable. But I doubt it. I think she just doesn't want the men fight over the women, which would doom humanity in a few hundred weeks faster." "So, she just turned me into a female-looking fucktoy? For you?" "Oh no. Not for me. For every one of us. Basileia insisted, on threat of neural pain, that I should 'relieve the worst tension' with you. Apparently she's going to torture me, if I don't fuck you." He chuckled. "So, do you want it to be a rape or not? I can go both ways." My body was tense, my breathing raspy, but it had to be from the fright and not arousal. Logic stated that I should go with it: Basileia was a mind-construct with high processing capacity. She had to have made extensive estimates about mission success, with every little detail taken into account. The mission apparently now being the survival of the human species. On a barren rock, in bumfuck nowhere space. Fuck it, I thought. If humanity verged, at the brink of destruction, on this asshole of an mech-engineer getting his dick wet, it might as well die. I wouldn't be a cog, a toy, to be violated for his 'relief'. If he had asked nicely, then perhaps. He was kind of handsome, in purely cold aesthetic terms. I tried to walk past him, but he clasped my arm, twisted it and pulled me into an embrace. "Let me go! This is just insane!" He forced his lips on my cheek. A simple kiss shouldn't have been so wrong. My other arm was free, so I tried to punch him in the stomach. His musculature was like a wall, and my arm so weak. "Yeah," he snarled and picked me up from the ground. "I like this way better too." I screamed. He threw me on the bed and clambered on top of me. He was so much bigger that he could easily keep me down, all the while getting his dick out of his jumpsuit. "No, don't! Please..." "Keep going." He slapped my face and growled, "Let's see some tears." I struggled to get my legs from under him so I could kick. I screamed curses. I tried to get my fingernails on him, so I could at least scratch him. But he kept me in place, with barely any effort. And I couldn't stop crying. He placed his cock for entry and forced himself inside me. I was parted where I shouldn't have been, and filled in a way that made my stomach churn. Yet, I couldn't pretend there wasn't a thrilling sensation hidden under the violation. That made it worse. With every one of his rough thrusts, a hint of pleasure mocked me. My body built towards a climax, which made me want to fight even more, but strength had left my limbs. I was almost glad, that before being pushed over the brink, I could feel a new warmth inside me. He pulled himself out, slapped my face hard, and climbed out of the bed. "Good performance," he said. "I almost believed you didn't like it." He was out of the door, before I could stop sobbing and come up with a retort. I forced myself out of the bed and went to the hygiene unit. I wanted... him out of me. Rationally, the sperm wouldn't do much in the mere fleshy sheath installed in me. Yet I wanted to be rid of it. The sticky slime stuck on everything --my thighs, my hand, my hair from the hand-- and I was crying again, before I felt even a bit cleaner. I went to the bed and ripped the sheets of it. After the bed printed and folded new ones, and I ripped them out too. Stuffing the sheets in the disposal hatch did make me feel a tiny bit better. That was bad. I shouldn't enjoy wasting resources. I sat on the now again immaculately-made bed, and compelled myself to calm down. I was supposed to be collected. I was supposed to handle the pressures of long periods in space. My current situation couldn't be that bad. Not as bad as that time, when most of my blood was on the wrong side my skin. Yes, I was just shocked by the suddenness of it. And there had been an --very tiny-- enjoyable part in it. I'd just get the mech- engineer reprimanded for everything else, and it would be fine. Fuck no. "Basileia!" I screamed. "You binary bitch! Get in here!" Her personal image, of floating interlocking abstract shapes in imperial purple, appeared on the wall-screen. "Explain, now!" I shouted. "You appeared to be distressed." "It seems so." I gritted my teeth. Basileia had the tendency to become unresponsive, if she was cursed or shouted at. The diagnostics claimed her speech-recognition got confused by overt expletives, but I had always thought she had a heavy petulant streak. I continued, "Go on, explain this." "Emergency protocol is in place." Her voice was always imperious, presumably modelled to fit her personal designation. "I have made the necessary arrangements. Everything is going according to the plan." "What plan?" I shouted. "The protocol states that, in the current emergency situation, information must be divulged only on need-to-know-basis. Based on your appointment, you do not need to know." She disappeared with a flicker that might as well been an obscene hand gesture. I hurt my hand punching the wall-screen. The door opened, and another man walked in. I whimpered from frustration. He was tall and lanky, shoulders pressed with the slump of overwork. Beyond that he was a data scientists, I knew nothing about him. He gasped and turned his face away from me. "Sorry! Basileia was very insisted that I come here to..." "Fuck me." "Yes. Not that I wouldn't mind-- You are very pretty." His laugh was an outburst of pure nerves. "But isn't it weird to copulate on the command of the facility AI?" I was oddly put at ease by his lack of confidence. "Did she threaten to shock your neural implant, if you didn't obey?" "Yes... Yes, she did. That was exactly why I was rather reluctant to come." He gave me a cautious glance. "I assumed you'd look too..." He rotated his hand. "To fuck willingly." He walked closer, but not directly towards me, and rubbed his palm. "Basileia is unhinged. I don't think I have shown any signs of overt sexual tension to warrant this. But I don't want to be shocked. Not only does it hurt, but it messes my ability to connect with my work-systems." I was exasperated. Just a moment ago I had thought I'd never have sex willingly again. But now it seemed like I would be the guilty party, if I didn't. "What ever." I wouldn't have to do anything. I lied down on the bed. "Get it over with." He took off his jumpsuit. Under the baggy clothing, he had been lean enough to look muscular. Or maybe he just was muscular, I didn't bother to examine him too thoroughly. Instead of getting straight to work, he climbed next to me. "May I kiss you?" "What?" I gasped. But at least it wouldn't hurt. "Sure." He turned me to face him and pressed his lips on mine. His hand moved along my side with care that made my body respond, and I let him wrap his arms around me. Low sobs escaped my throat. He stopped. "Something wrong?" "No, continue, before I change my mind." I couldn't admit that, what made me wretched was how good it felt to be held so gently. Almost as if I wasn't just a hole to be fucked at command. Just to get the terror out of my mind, I responded fiercely to his embrace. He climbed on top of me. His movements were frantic, as he tried to keep his weight off me and guide his penis for entrance. I pulled him down on me, so he'd continue the kisses. His tall frame was curved to keep his attention on both of my ends. His penis pushed into me, but I didn't mind. He was clearly concentrated on me. The humps were clumsy and barely moved his penis inside me, yet I was steadily pushed closer to my climax. But his breathing was ragged, and I feared he'd finish before me. He grunted, and based on the shift in his movements, he had to have come inside me. I was mortified. It wasn't fair. Yet he continued to thrust. Groaning, he lifted himself a bit off me. "Are you... coming?" "Ye-- yes!" "Damn, I can't..." He placed his hand on my groin, his fingers seeking how to coax more moans out of me. He had stopped thrusting for a while, before my desperate ache released in a jolt. For a gasping moment, I loved him, his limp dick partly in me, his fingers. I loved being a woman. Then it was all gone, with only a faint warmth to remind me I hadn't hated it. He pulled out, but instead of turning and leaving, he lowered himself next to me and reached for a kiss. I answered, but without any anxious need. Mostly, I was grateful he had cared even a bit about me, but I wasn't glad it had happened. And then he left. Without saying how he loved me or how he'd save me. Already I was a mere prostitute. Something that could be fucked without giving a fuck. Eight more men came and went. Most were gentle, even considerate, but not one of them thought that I might have been reluctant. Clearly I wasn't going to turn down men after having a few. One of them, an analyst who had known me, was weirded out by who I had been, but built up the necessary courage by calling me a slut. Only a whore wouldn't have fought off the first five. Only a skank wouldn't bother cleaning all the sticky disgusting sperm off her, even though there was always more of it. Basileia wouldn't have selected me if I wasn't into it, like my moans indicated. I hated the men, but I was simmering with rage against Basileia. How could she consider the tiny 'relief' for a few males to be worth the misery wrought on me? Maybe it was a deterrent against the men: to show what could happen to them if they started trouble. I felt bitter against the safely cloistered women. They should have been in my place. They were born to it. It took me considerable effort to reject those thoughts. This was all Basileia's doing. Even the men were forced, even if they relished the excuse. I couldn't know what I would have done in the same situation. Fucking a hot girl, and then pretending she liked it... That did seem like a better option than neural pain. II. NEW DAY, FRESH CONFIDENCE I woke up with some of my resolution restored. If I continued being a victim, I'd lose myself. I'd end up pretending I deserved it, that I liked it. "Basileia!" She flickered into the screen, but didn't say anything. "Can't you give me a fuck-quota and let go about the facility? It's not like I can escape. Consider my mental situation. Would it be mission conducive if I started trying to harm myself?" Her image quivered. "You will not harm yourself." She was gone, and I screamed. Soon the next man entered. I pleaded him to fight back against Basileia. I insulted his lack of self-control. I begged him to have pity. He just brushed the hair away from my face and pushed me to the bed. I hadn't bothered to move from the bed when the next man came. He didn't mind that I didn't bother responding to him. I did my best to ignore rest of them. One man was enraged and punched me below the ribs so my breath gave. He called me a dirty slut, who couldn't be bothered to clean herself, even though he had to fuck me. After it seemed that the day's ordeal was finally over, I washed myself and considered my situation. Pretending to be catatonic didn't make it any easier. It just made me feel more like a piece of meat. Next morning I cleaned myself and put on a jumpsuit. My tits were so huge, it was too uncomfortable to close the fastener-slip in front all the way up. Leaving some cleavage was more convenient. At least the smart-fabric supported my tits, though perked-up half-exposed boobs did leave me looking rather slutty. On a whim I decided to have my hair done in a cute ponytail, and some makeup added to my face. Might as well try to look hot. When the first man of the day came, I pretended to be aroused. I went to kiss him, and eagerly moved my hands around his body. He responded with embraces of same fervour, and it took a while before he unwrapped me out of the jumpsuit. He moved his hands all around me like he wanted to experience everything I had to offer. I was wanted, and real heat build in me. The man ended up making sure I reached the brink before him. I thought I loved him. And then he was gone. I cleaned myself, and pretended I was aroused again for the next man. Many of my visitors remained indifferent or even cruel, but most of them cared more about me, when I appeared eager. Maybe they thought they had something to prove, in satisfying a needy woman. For me, it was easier to accept the situation, when I could enjoy my 'work'. I still got fits of desperation, but managed to recollect myself before the next man, usually. In coming weeks I had significantly more sex than I had ever had as a man, until my memories of male orgasm became fuzzy. Yet, though it was often enjoyable, the sex never managed not to disappoint when the guy always left afterwards, with his mind on his life outside my prison. Most of my visitors were new, or just so interchangeable I forgot about them. A few them were regulars. Like the mech-engineer. On his second visit, he tried to elicit a response out me with a slap, but gave up hurting me after I refused to not appear needy. On his next visits he was much more considerate, sometimes even gentle. Some of the men wanted to have different sort of action, but when a man requested a blow-job, Basileia barged into the screen. According to her, proper 'relief' would only be 'penis-in-your-vagina intercourses resulting in an inside-ejaculation by the male'. I giggled after she disappeared: the damn machine didn't even understand how humans could have sex without pretending they were procreating. My lot was a foolish mistake by a stupid mind-construct. I still sucked the guy off and merely waited that he was ready to go again, as a slight against Basileia, of course. On the third week I started having trembling fits. Sometimes it just wasn't possible to pretend I desired to be... used. I couldn't just pretend my life only existed for the one day only. Basileia's claim that I wouldn't hurt myself didn't seem so guaranteed, when all I could look forward to was the walls of my room and the unending, sterile, unloving, mechanical intercourses. III. OUT IN THE OPEN I had been huddling on the floor for most of the early day, before I realized the first man should have already arrived. Maybe it was my day off? After a month that didn't seem much. "Basileia," I whispered, my voice hoarse from all the crying. She flickered into the screen. "What is going on?" I asked. "I have given you access to the hallways and common areas." "What? Why?" "No more men will be instructed to have intercourse with you." She disappeared. I was understandably mistrustful of my tormentor. It took me a while to dress myself and do my hair and makeup. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to leave at that point. It would be just a research facility full of rapists behind the door. I stepped into the hallway, with nervous thumping of my heart in my ears. Meeting the people, who I had previously worked with, talked to and casually ignored, now was risky. Dangerous. But unless I wanted to continue huddling in my room, I'd have to trust that basic human decency still existed. If Basileia didn't force them, they had to respect my autonomy. Or failing that, keep each other off me due to the difficulty of the whole facility fucking me at the same time. I walked to the closest commons, and immediately regretted leaving my room. There were several dozen men there, playing games --archaic physical, and others--, talking, eating. Faces started to turn towards me. Some were surprised, some leered with desire, a few frowned. I plastered a coy smile on my face and walked past the largest throng. A man grasped my arm. "Hey, don't ignore me. Let's go have some fun." I took a deep breath. Now my trust in my co-workers, in all humanity, would be tested. "Let go of me." And I added, "Creep." "Bitch." He moved his hand to slap me, but another man pushed him. I stepped back to watch the ensuing cockfight. "Keep your hands off the girl." "That's no chick!" "Then why do you want to fuck her instead of all the lads here?" The argument was joined by others, until most of the hall was in uproar. Luckily it didn't come down to blows, but the wording got heated. In the end the losing side realized that 'we should be allowed to abuse anything that looks like a woman' wasn't a good position against 'we are not animals'. "Hey, come," a decidedly feminine voice said and gently pulled by hand. I turned to face my co-worker, a comms-specialist. He was wearing a jumpsuit with legs cut short at upper thighs, and his long hair loose. And he had tits. "You..." The comms-specialist guided me into the hallway. A man followed us, but pissed off when suggested so by my friend. We stepped into a data room, and the comms-specialist locked it behind us. He hugged me. "They did it to you too," I said. "I'm so sorry." "Oh no. Don't worry. Now that all bland professionalism is out of the airlock, and humanity is apparently doomed, I decided to finally try being a girl. Then I found I like it, so I got some upgrades." She grinned. She had never really looked too masculine, so I only now noticed the small changes to her face. The comms-specialist kept her hands on my shoulders and frowned. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you." "I'm alright," I lied. "But thanks." We sat down. "Oh man..." I moaned. "I need to keep it together. At least they didn't gangbang me." She smiled. "Yeah, they are beasts alone, but as a group, men care about order, at least the pecking one." It was surprising that I didn't mind being excluded from 'men'. "Don't they harass you?" "I didn't get my junk changed, and most of them know it. I can handle the few idiots who want to still have their way with me without paying." "Paying?" "Well, we usually pretend they are gifts. My old job is boring and now pretty much pointless. I get plenty of trids as a girl for pay." I stared at my friend, waiting her to continue. "And trids mean trade tokens. We use them now to ration any supplies that are limited. Basileia keeps track of the system for us." I fumbled with my hands. "I have no idea why Basileia let me out." She frowned. "You are free now. Or at least as free as the rest of us." "I guess I should start picking up any sort of life I can." She wrapped her arm around me. "We have access to the autodocs... You could..." I was silent for a while. "I think I'll try that being a woman thing, too." IV. LIVING ON With some adjustments, my old job was still marginally useful, though there was not much for me to do. I hanged out with my friend the comms- specialist, whenever she wasn't busy working. It was hard to think of her as a hardened hallway-walker: she was still the same person I knew. There were others like my friend, a few with genital tissue-implants like mine, though they either worked in other parts of the facility, or remained in mostly secluded in their partners' rooms. But none of them had been imprisoned like I had been. I noticed that, as long as I made clear that I wasn't available, I could interact with men like a fellow human being without constantly being solicited sex. Most of them were admirably well-adjusted to the situation. I did enjoy the attention, yet the fear of building up the men's expectations stopped me from seeking the sort of affection I found I craved. While I didn't want to turn tricks for trids, men were eager to treat me just for being around, especially to extra rations. I was constantly hungry, which was rather inconvenient, as I wanted to lose my excess weight. I wasn't fat, but certainly above optimal. At least most of the weight was in the right places, so I didn't consider surgical correction. A group of hydroponicists had managed to come up with a process to make hard alcohol that didn't make one blind and supposedly didn't taste like an ingredient for disinfectant. Me and my friend were invited to the 'official tasting ceremony'. I was anxious about getting wasted with pent-up guys, but on the other hand the idea of letting my hair down and enjoying male company was exciting. Even if I was only a little tipsy, it would work as an excuse why I wasn't available all the time. We had been handed our tiny metal cups of the foul stuff, when Basileia flickered on to a screen. She informed us that I wasn't allowed recreational drug use. My confusion rapidly turned into suspicion and dread. I excuses myself and made my way to a medical suite. I cursed myself that I hadn't gotten even a basic scan, but it hadn't seemed necessary. Now, waiting the scanner to announce its results, cold sweat trickled down my back and chest. It wasn't just a fleshy sheath. I had a whole uterine system inside me. And it --I-- was pregnant, not with one, or two, but fourteen embryos. I collapsed against the counter and slid down to sit on the floor. Being pregnant was a shock, having an experimental uterine implant was horrifying and the embryo-count was almost too bizarre to believe. My friend burst into the medical suite just as I let out a whining giggle. "Are you alright?" She kneeled next to me. "I'm... I'm pregnant." "Huh. What?" She gasped. "That's what Basileia was doing with you!" "Ye-yeah... And not just with a baby, b-but fourteen of them." "The hell? That's a death sentence! You... You have to get an..." "No..." That didn't seem right. They were my children. Or would be. If they survived. If I did. I held my hands below my navel, and waves of trembling coursed through me. Basileia flicker to a screen. "She won't need an abortion." "You computed cunt!" my friend shouted. "With the extensive physiological upgrades," Basileia continued. "She has a high chance of surviving, even without medical supervision, which will be given. Her condition has provided, and and will continue to provide, valuable data for determining the viability of the current plan for the long-term survival of humanity." "Why not test your dumb shit on the cloistered women?" my friend demanded. "They are too few to risk even in minor ways. Should this project have failed, with our volunteer here, in the initial stages, it wouldn't have been a huge loss to the currently very limited humanity." "You could have told me..." I whispered. "No. Humans are ingenious in coming up with ways to avoid pregnancy, a tendency dangerous to the project even in small doses. Even the attempts would have skewed the data." "But why f-fourteen?" "The number was not predetermined beyond more than seven. Instead, it was left to your inner systems to determine when to stop releasing new ova after the previous one was fertilized." I nodded. It was all a relief. I hadn't been raped for simple male pleasure, but instead, I had participated in a mission critical to human survival. It felt right. I could be a woman without feeling a gnawing emptiness in me. I would be a parent. A mother. V. PROSPECTS The comms-specialist remained confused about how calmly I took the news. In the following days, I was still nervous, and not a little scared, yet I wasn't the wreck one might have expected me to be. Eventually she accepted that I had accepted it. "To be honest, I'm concerned how much you are fondling your belly already." "I want to feel them," I said. She frowned. "I think you'll get to feel them quite enough." After the embryos had grown sufficiently large, at Basileia's behest I had them scanned for their fathers. Save for the oldest two, which were real twins, they had different fathers. One of them was the mech- engineer, but I didn't mind: his daughter would have a strong, able father. The twins were the data scientist's, which made oddly happy. I realized that, out of all my partners, he was the only one I had missed after my freedom. When my pregnancy was obvious enough that I didn't seem to be just growing fat, I decided to visit the data scientist. He was, in a sense, one of Basileia's chief servants. He had been busy with the project to expand the facility; manufacturing capacity needed urgent upgrades before certain supplies ran out, and there was screaming deficiency in permanent habitation to house all of the crew, who had to be slowly taken out of hibernation. And of course, all the children of the volunteers for the uterine implants. The data scientist was sitting his legs crossed in middle of the glow of machines, his eyes closed. He was like the meditating high priest of a capricious god, though I knew he was working through his neural link. When I greeted him, he turned to me and smiled. Then I knew it hadn't been a waste of time to go meet him. I shocked him by announcing 'it's yours!' while holding my belly. Though, after recovering from the surprise, he took it well, when I explained that only the twins were fathered by him. I asked if he might want to spend time with me. He did, and I felt giddy. I didn't know if I'd love him, but he was pleasant company. Always kind, he even apologized (unlike any other of the men) that 'he hadn't realized what Basileia was doing and tried to convince her to do the project more humanely'. That was good enough for me. I wasn't bitter about it having happened to me, just from the execution of it. After I moved to his room, it didn't take him long to get excited about the prospect of becoming a father. When he joked that 'the next batch would be all his', I realized I loved him. It didn't escape me that a lot of my behaviour and emotions might have been affected by the body chemistry changes, but fighting against something that made me happy would have been foolish. I only began to fully appreciate the mess I was in for when my belly reached the size I had expect it to ultimately have, in middle of the second trimester. Even with all the upgrades to my body, which Basileia had detailed when I had complained idly, I was quite uncomfortable. And it would get worse. Unlike a natural pregnancy, mine wouldn't skirt on space and resources just to keep the mother functional at the bare minimum efficiency necessary for hunter-gatherers. My body would be fully dedicated to the fetuses. Eventually merely standing was painful in several parts of my body. Yet lying down wasn't much better, as my insides were crushed by the weight of the pregnancy. The least miserable position was sitting on the bed with my hurting back straight. The stretched skin of my stomach was unsightly veiny and no amount of lotion couldn't keep it from tearing. My breasts grew until it was hard to think them as anything expect deformed sacks of adipose tissue and glands, always sore. I was hard to fit into the alcove of the styling unit, even if I had wanted to do my hair or makeup. I barely even bothered combing. No need to look presentable: I didn't like leaving the room much. At least they manufactured me some oversized jumpsuits, but putting them on was bothersome. Sitting on my fat posterior, holding my hands protectively over my belly while being angry at it, I considered myself to be a monstrous aberration. I kept the wall-screen on, so I wouldn't see myself in the faint reflection of its default state. My data scientist disagreed with my assessment. He said I was just as beautiful as ever, but now enticingly, overtly, feminine, primally so. He tolerated my acerbic objections and remarks without flinching. He endeavoured to please me, despite the difficulty caused by the belly, whenever I felt frustratedly horny. Which was way more often than I would have expected. I don't think I could have tolerated my situation, without him holding my hand as the constant anxiety threatened to boil over. I had thought that the start of labour would comes as a relief, but when the signs were confirmed by a medical scan, I was terrified. Not just for myself, but for the babies. It didn't seem possible to get them out with everyone still alive. Basileia informed the medic-technicians that no surgery was necessary, and in fact would decrease 'the chance of success and skew the data'. My mind swimming from the internal and external painkillers, delirious with fear and panting in agony, the labour lasted until I gave up the hope of it ever ending. When I was clear-headed enough again to understand my surroundings, I thought that my still distended belly meant I was still pregnant. My nervous giggling only ended when a medic-technician handed one of the babies. Squirming, breathing, soft and vulnerable proof that I hadn't suffered needlessly. I spend the next few days in the medical suite, having the damage caused by the pregnancy repaired or at least mitigated. Not everything in me had been state-of-the-art medical technology. Basileia made the arrangements for the upbringing of the children. Most of them would eventually be brought up communally, with their fathers potentially as their primary guardians depending on 'the further evaluations on their suitability'. I myself and my data scientist would have the the direct responsibility over the twins. I was wrecked by the grief over the separation from my children, though it wouldn't really be final adoption away from me, but a weird extended family arrangement with Basileia as the matriarch. The AI insisted that my fertility should be turned off, though I only agreed to turn down the fetation rate close to normal. After I stated my decision, Basileia surprisingly stopped pressing the issue. After living twenty-five weeks in an ad-hoc nursery, I moved with my data scientist and twins to a fresh habitation module build deep inside the rock. I was still nursing my twins, when my new bump became obvious. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you very much for reading. Please leave a comment! The attention literarily (hah) feeds me. Not much to self-deprecate about this time. There's stuff I like here, and some stuff I don't. But oh boy, had I a hard time justifying this whole premise to myself. Why nobody (save for the true heroine, Basileia) is named: it's deliberate artistic choice to dehumanize everyone by distilling them into their job and reproductive role. ... Just kidding. I just couldn't come up with what sort of names they should have, as I have no idea when or where this story happens. Should be somewhere in this solar system, but I don't know any place with Earth- like gravity and anything interesting enough to warrant a research facility staffed by dozens (potentially hundreds) of fleshy, vulnerable and not-too-smart humans. Perhaps it was actually a human backup reserve? They certainly ended up needing that, but why so few women in the first place? I guess the crazy AGIs are at it again. But this is getting meandering. Thanks, again, for reading! All rights are waived on this text, CC0.