Manhunt, Part 4 (Patreon)

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Summary: After a one-night-stand, a charming young Spaceforce captain unknowingly impregnates an alien woman who is on the run from galactic authorities. Months later, said alien woman ambushes the young captain, and transfers her massive litter to his body, against his will, just before it is time for the children to be born. She leaves the litter with him for safekeeping. As a male, he cannot birth the litter. Instead he grows and grows as he and his crew struggle to track her so that he can transfer the offspring back over to her. Contains: Male: Pregnancy/belly expansion, breast expansion, butt expansion. Some female pregnancy.

Previous Chapter

-

Tom’s crew followed a lead on Iglina all the way to planet Zul, where a Federation soldier had reported a citing of her. His crew stormed the abandoned housing unit where it was rumored that she had taken up residence, but by the time they arrived, she had long been gone.

Tom was last to disembark his ship, and with severe reluctance. He eased down the ladder and waddled through the unit with as much dignity as he could muster, his crew and local authorities surrounding the dank, underground space, weapons bared.

There were newspapers, worn clothes, empty food containers, and even a pair or women’s boots that looked distinctly hers. But there was no sign of her. Tom’s face contorted with indignation, and he hardly refrained from screaming. Instead he turned around and waddled back out of the hideout. He severely needed a drink.

A week had passed, a week of dragging, aching, bemoaning, and fidgeting under the increasing awkwardness of his expanding body. He hauled himself towards the ship’s entry ramp, the sheer sight of the steep metal making his muscles want to cry. But he halted himself when a hand touched his shoulder.

Tom turned and sneered at the Zul authority who had taken it upon himself to grab Tom’s arm. “Yes?” he said tightly as he quickly ensured that his translator was turned on.

The reptilian Zulian glanced away, then back at Tom with his slit eyes. He spoke quietly, so that none of Tom’s crew could hear as they swarmed about around them. “Excussse my audacity. Rumor around the federation is that you’re havinng—bodily issues, of the most intimate variety.”

Tom’s mouth trembled, but he somehow managed not to snap. “What the hell is it to you?” he seethed, then clenched his teeth so tightly they hurt.

The Zulian looked abashed, but went on, in his slithery dialect. “We have a doctor here. He’sss quite the miracle worker. He might even be able to aide in your debacle. Though I warn—his methods are not legal by federation standards. Zul medicine is quite effective, though not respected for the risks it entails.”

Tom’s gaze again shifted to his ship’s ramp. As far as Ren said, the doomed nature or his pregnancy was unamendable, short of the unlikely act of Iglina taking the spawn back. This supposed doctor seemed like bait for a trap, or at least a monumental let-down. He suspected one of his enemies wanted a nab at him, or that his employers just wanted to quietly dispose of the embarrassment he had become.

And yet, something stopped him from walking away. It was better than nothing. It was a chance.

“What is the name of this doctor.”

-

Only an hour later, Tom found himself in the dilapidated living room of another of the underground dwellings that Zul natives had the gall to call homes.

The grungy odor was overpoweringly repulsive, and he found himself oddly clutching at the side of his belly as he fought not to retch.

Tom had brought two uniforms along with him, but had sternly told them to wait outside, no matter what they heard.

Across the room, a reptilian alien littered with gray scales was tinkering with the tube and bottles that lined his rickety shelf, often top-sizing or dropping things, but hardly seeming to care. Somewhere, behind the substances, he unearthed a silvery disk as wide as Tom’s palm. He approached Tom with it, smirking in success.

“Of courssse, several of uss I heard about your dilemma, Captain, even this far from federation territory,” said doctor Suls eagerly. “Very amussing. You have the medical community quite intrigued.”

Tom grimaced. “What would you propose? A surgery? My head medic said that if she attempted it, there’s a high risk of—”

“Of course not,” Dr. Suls cut in. “Attempting ssurgery would be as good as mmurder.”

Tom frowned and waited for him to go on.

“Your treatment musst take…a progressive approach. I can give you something to aid with your disscomfort while we work on a more permanent remedy.”

Tom wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to come back to this horrible place. “This was a waste of tim—”

“If you go, you will regret it,” the doctor cut him off. Sals held up his silvery disk. “This devicce has only been used on our most elite spiess and soldierss, though the effects are quite profound. I will download a set of directives into your biology. I can make your joints loosen in places, and tighten in others, and groom your muscles to progressively strengthen or your tendons to relax. I can ease your physical pain—but also your frustration and sadness. I can even influencce your hormone production and ssslow the growth of the younglings.”

Tom gave the man a dubious look. “And what are the side-effects of this miracle drug?”

“Not a drug. A program,” Suls responded. “The side-effectsss are minisscule. The only concern would be if someone were to implement a bad command, though that is highly unlikely, as sso few know how to work thesse.” Suls indicated the disk again. “Further, if the programming wass to be halted, you would revert to the biology that you were meant for. Everything will catch up all at oncce.”

“Growth,” Tom mused aloud. “Pain. Discomfort.” Even death.

“Indeed.”

“And then there’s the matter of control…” said Tom, not exactly buying what the doctor was selling, but indulging him anyway.

“The disk would have no influence over free will. It sssimply programs your...mmm…physical body. In fact, the disssk would go with you. If ssomeone wanted to adjust your chip, they would have to go through you.”

“A chip?” said Tom.

“A simple implant,” said the doctor. “Injected inside your ear.”

“Meaning, my brain,” said Tom, his distrust growing.

“Yess, but—let me explain,” said Suls.

“No,” Tom cut him off. “I—I will think on it.” And he found he was very ready to depart planet Zul.

-

On his ship that evening, Tom tried to get some rest, but it was impossible as he dealt with the relentless squirms that littered his swollen belly. His nipples ached, and his loins throbbed, but he tried his best not to stimulate himself in any way. He didn’t need a repeat in the earlier dripping.

His crew had expressed curiosity as to why they had not departed Zul. Dane had gently intimated that it was because they had run out of leads on Iglina.

That wasn’t it. Or maybe not entirely.

After hours to attempting, and failing, to sleep, Tom heaved his fecund body out of bed and went to his in-room work-station.

He did some superficial research on the Zulian command disk, but could find nothing on it on it. He hesitated, then logged in with his Federation access code. He knew there was a risk of monitoring from the higher-ups, but he just needed to know if this thing was real.

The information on the disk proved sparse, but it was legitimate.

Biological Command Disk developed by scientists on planet Zul in the spule galaxies.

A device used to remotely program biological directives into the victim via the injection of a cerebral chip. Can be used for substantial biological enhancements, and potentially cure every physical and biological aliment short of death.

Can also potentially be used for incapacitation, torture, and murder. A tool of illegal warfare, little is known about the intricacies and side-effects of the disk. Though endorsed by smaller galaxies, there is egregious potential for violation of the victim and questions of free will.

Level 4 secrecy. Federation officials will deny the existence of such a device, and destroy if presented the opportunity. Any being seen carrying the device should be taken into custody immediately.

Beneath the short article, an image of the disk shone on the screen.

Tom wiped his hand down his face. It was a real thing. It was unspeakably dangerous, but it was real. If he consented to the chip, he would be putting his life in Suls’s hands. But there was one line of the article that he just couldn’t get out of his head.

…potentially cure every physical and biological aliment short of death…

He would be able to suspend his search for Iglina and take reign of his life again.

-

Tom returned to Suls’s residence alone this time, flushed and panting from the uncomfortable transport. If he didn’t teleport back soon, he crew would notice his absence.

Suls was pleased by his appearance. “Ssit.” He nodded to one of the moldy couches against the far wall.

“I’ll stand,” said Tom tensely.

Suls shrugged. He leaned down and rummaged in a bucket for a moment, before withdrawing the largest syringe Tom had ever seen. Suls then approached Tom, needle raised.

By impulse, Tom drew his laser gun and aimed it for the doctor.

Suls seemed amused. “You hardly value for own life, what threat are you to mine,” he crowed.

And with blithe disregard, Suls pushed Tom into the wall and jammed the needle into his ear, as Tom groaned out, his face twitching. Blood began to drip from his nose.

Suls withdrew the needle. “That wasn’t sso bad, wasss it?”

Tom wiped his nose on his sleeve, still twitching slightly. “Just get this over wi—”

Suls tinkered with the disk, and suddenly Tom was gasping and hunching down, falling to his knees as his shoulders trembled and his belly shuddered. He arched and cried out, twisting, contorting, until he found himself on the dirty floor in a fetal position hugging himself until his spasms subsided.

And suddenly Tom was completely fine.

He felt lighter—still bulky, but no longer strained, and as he slowly rose, it was with little effort, his muscles no longer straining, joints not protesting. He was fine. Tom took a tentative step forward and found that he was hardly even waddling. “Fuck,” he breathed out.

“Indeed,” said Suls, pleased. “I’d say I tweaked away all your bodily discomforts.” He gave one more tap of the disk, where odd symbols flashed then faded. “And allayed some of the emotional burden. Sadness, insecurity, anger, fear. Humanoids are dramatic, aren’t they?”

Tom bit his lip from retorting.

“You can also expect a substantial decrease in your rate of growth,” Suls went on, gesturing to Tom’s bulging abdomen.

“Right. Thanks,” said Tom acerbically. “Now give me the disk.” He again pointed his gun at Suls.

“I fully intended to,” Suls said, handing it over.

Tom grabbed it, and shoved it under his arm. It felt surprisingly thin, and fragile. His weapon shook slightly in his hand, before he holstered it again. Suspicious though the man was, Suls was not his enemy. “What do I owe you?”

“The only payment I require are weekly reports. Tell me how you’re faaring. It’ss not every day that I get to try out my disk on a humanoid. And come back in a month or ssso. By then I might have a nicce treat for you.”

Tom nodded stiffly. He hesitated. “Thank you,” he managed.

The doctor responded only with a smirk.

Tom shifted his elbow and dialed the console of his transport band. In a wave of breathlessness and nausea, he found himself back on his ship.

-

From then, Tom was content.

It was odd, how dramatially he could be changed in a matter of moments.

He was no longer bitter and angry, and repulsed by his condition. He even lost his reservations about meat, and began to indulge in it, with enthusiasm at that.

The whole crew was baffled by his vast change in attitude, and his lack of urgency about finding Iglina.

When Ren announced he had reached the estimated due date of the spawn, he nearly laughed at her, and Ren seemed shaken by the blatant lack of concern. She probably thought he had lost his mind.

Most controversial of all, Tom resumed fieldwork and missions. If Ren complained, he listened with a professional detachment, and did what he wanted anyway.

Life was good again.

“Apprehend all of them,” Tom ordered as he surveyed the scene. The ship had stumbled upon an illegal weapons deal while making a fuel stop on a meteor fragment called Roon. Tom shot an alien through one of his hearts as he made a jerk for his weapon. “Arms up,” Tom warned, as the alien fell to one knee. Hissing in pain, he slowly raised his arms.

Interestingly enough, the alien had been the only perp quick enough to try to fight back. The rest were staring in bafflement at Tom’s distended midsection. Tom had been fitted with a custom uniform, but it was still quiet tight, and it outlined everything, even his bulging belly button. And Tom sort of liked the shock value, how easily his gut distracted criminals, and to their complete detriment.

“Are we taking them on board, captain?” said Pirtha.

“Why not?” said Tom smugly.

“We should wait for galactic authorities,” said Dan.

“Why bother? We can transport them ourselves,” said Tom, as he walked about, examining the illicit weapons, his belly heaving gently. His crew harshly cuffed the half-dozen criminals and shoved them to their knees.

“Are you sure that is wise,” said Dane. He walked over to Tom, and spoke more quietly. “Our jail facilities are not the most advanced, and taking them on board seems an unnecessary risk to…” he trailed off, nodding to Tom’s huge gut, which looked ready to pop at any moment.

Tom frowned. “Dane, it’s time for you to start acting professional.”

“I—sir—”

“My personal life, or health condition, are none of your concern.” Tom turned to Pirtha and the others. “Take the suspects on board and set course for the nearest galactic executive station.”

“Sir!” They agreed, saluting.