The Inphel fleet sailed silently through the void, its biomechanical vessels an amalgamation of flesh and machine. Each ship pulsed with a sickly green light, as though alive, and the vast command ship Nightrender loomed at the fleet's centre—a nightmarish behemoth, both temple and war machine.
The heart of the Nightrender housed the High Matron, the last surviving female of the Inphel race. Once a being of regal beauty, her body had long since fused with the ship, her organic form encased in a grotesque tangle of machinery. Tubes and wires pulsed with viscous fluid, connecting her shrivelled, translucent skin to the ship's systems. Her enormous, bulbous head dominated the chamber, her eyes glowing faintly with intelligence and malice.
She was more than their leader; she was the lifeblood of their people, a spiritual icon whose very existence justified the Inphel's relentless conquests.
In the vast throne chamber of the Nightrender, the High Matron's voice echoed through the minds of her people. Her mouth no longer moved; instead, her commands resonated directly through psychic waves amplified by the ship's systems.
"We approach another fertile world," her voice croaked, both guttural and metallic. "Its inhabitants will resist, but resistance only sweetens our triumph."
Her bulging eyes scanned the holographic image of Earth suspended before her. The planet's blue-green surface gleamed with vitality—a stark contrast to the desolation left in the wake of the Inphel's subjugation fleets.
"My children," she continued, "this world holds the key to our survival. Its resources will fuel us. It's the females that will sustain us. Our genetic memory must endure."
The High Matron's body pulsed with faint light as her machinery shifted and whirred. Her biological eggs, once the hope of the Inphel, had long since been depleted. Without females, her people had turned to grotesque methods of reproduction.
The breeding rooms of the fleet were chambers of surgical horror, where captured females from countless worlds were dissected for their reproductive material. The harvested eggs were fertilised with Inphel genetic material and incubated in biomechanical vats. The new Inphel were fed the remains of their biological mothers, ensuring that every resource was utilised.
The Matron had justified these atrocities for centuries. "Survival above all," she often declared. "Through sacrifice, we transcend."
In the fleet's armouries, soldiers polished their ornate codpieces, symbols of rank and honour among the Inphel. The more elaborate and opulent the design, the greater the warrior's standing.
One officer, whose codpiece shimmered with embedded diamonds and gold filigree, approached a subordinate. "Earth's inhabitants are resilient," he croaked. "Their defences are formidable. We must strike quickly and without mercy."
The subordinate nodded, his codpiece a simpler affair marked by jagged silver edges. "The High Matron's vision will guide us. We exist only to fulfil her will."
Deep within the Nightrender, the High Matron convened with her most trusted generals. Their holographic forms knelt before her, their codpieces gleaming even in projection.
"The scouts have confirmed fertile hosts and sufficient resources," one general reported. "Resistance is expected but manageable."
"Expected, yes," the Matron's voice rasped. "But underestimated at your peril. Earth's inhabitants wield strange powers, unlike any we have encountered before. This conquest will require precision and overwhelming force."
Her machinery groaned as she shifted slightly, the fluids in her tubes sloshing faintly. "Bring me their strongest. Their most defiant. Their women shall feed the cycle, and their champions shall kneel before me."
Alone in her chamber, the High Matron's machinery hummed softly. Despite her psychic connection to the fleet, she was profoundly alone. Her children revered her, but she was the last of her kind—trapped in a half-life of flesh and machine, unable to experience the galaxy except through the eyes of her people.
Her mind wandered to memories long past, of a time when the Inphel had thrived, their society balanced by male and female alike. That balance had been shattered by their own hubris, their technological ambition consuming their natural reproduction.
"Through me," she whispered into the void, "our legacy will endure. Through me, the Inphel will never perish."
As the fleet accelerated toward Earth, the High Matron's chamber pulsed with light. Her psychic presence spread through the ships, filling the minds of her soldiers with resolve.
"Earth will fall," she proclaimed, her voice a thunderous croak. "Its people will kneel. Its women will feed our rebirth. This is our destiny."
The soldiers roared in unison, their croaks reverberating through the ship corridors as they prepared for war.
Far below, on the fragile planet spinning in the void, the Vanguard of Avalon braced for the storm.