First of the February Raffle Winner Stories! Here we have a sci-fi drama about a space marine being transformed into an anthro Pakicetus (one of those whale ancestors from 50ish million years ago that looked like a cross between a small hippo and a dog) over the course of several months. If you like safe for work transformation stories with sci-fi themes, then this will be right up your alley.

*Reminder* If you want a chance at winning your very own "Marquis Orias" TF story, completely free of charge, be sure to watch me on FA and enter my future raffle contests. I try to do a free story raffle once every month.

Enjoy!


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Ancient Oceans, Starry Skies

Marquis Orias


Raffle Winner Story for Mollogatani
Man => Pakicetus (Prehistoric Whale Ancestor)
Safe for Work





Clyde wasn’t surprised that the National Security Battalion would eventually track him down, just that they would do so in a crowded nightclub down on Old Earth. He’d always figured they’d go for more of a no-knock raid at 3am approach. Such overt action conflicted with their practiced secrecy so the fact they wanted him that badly didn’t bode well. Mysterious letters, hushed whispers… uncertainty and confusion now converted to a sinking feeling in the pit of the Cosmic Marine’s stomach as both uniformed and plainclothes officers filtered into the throngs of people dancing to the latest Top 50 EDM remixes. Eyes with integrated overlays scanned the crowd and watched the exits… checking the ID of each face to match Clyde’s strong jawline, hazel eyes, and blond hair cut to a buzz… each security officer crept with the certainty of a predatory feline.

Hissing under his breath, Clyde apologized to the woman he was dancing with, whose scene makeup had failed under the sweat of intense raving and now ran down her cheeks as deep tree roots, as the Marine began to weigh his options for escape.

Given the seriousness of the circumstances, he could kick himself for not just answering the beckon of the final confidential email… a summons on behalf of the ruling Concordia Society… written in all capitals and bolded… now there was going to be a public scene. But could one really blame him for not wanting to get involved in NSB business unless absolutely forced… knowing their propensity for playing mind games… the social engineering techniques some of his fellow Marines complained about on deployment when nobody was allegedly listening. But the truth was that the ears of the security state, alert as they were in troubled times, never ceased to turn attention toward any rumblings of malcontent.

Clyde kept a brisk pace as he weaved through the crowd, trying not to turn his head too abruptly, to give away that he knew he was being followed. But the trap’s wire was already tripped, the NSB accounted for such matters, and they would only have to wait, even if it meant till closing time.

The Cosmic Marine slipped into the inverted gravity lift that led to the upper bar, feeling his weight drop away as he was floating, falling upward… trying desperately to keep his arms at his side and his composure together. He’d seen direct combat 8 times, been wounded once… but there was something about the NSB with their perfectly kept uniforms and dead, almost robotic eyes, that struck away the breath from even the most hardened of troops.

Clyde let himself pass the 2nd and 3rd level bars, the growing throng of dancers below growing more massive, a swirl of people only comprehensible from above, but even within this mass, Clyde could see the emblazoned ribbons of the secret police. Those who recognized the security battalions also shrunk away, forming pockets in the crowd.

“You look a little tense, how about one of our famous absinthe-wash Manhattans to ease you over?” The bartender smiled as Clyde approached.

“Just water please.”

“Hey, with that haircut… you’re a soldier are-”

“Not a soldier.” Clyde’s eyes beamed. “I’m a Marine.”

“Sorry, my mistake.” The bartender pressed on the dispenser, mineral water instantly flowing into the cup.

It wasn’t exactly what Clyde had wanted, just normal tap water would have been fine… but perhaps the carbonation could work wonders for the sinking pit in his stomach. Anything to make him look normal, inconspicuous.

But in truth he was just forestalling the inevitable.

8 minutes later, a NSB captain gave him a gloved tap on the shoulder.

“Party’s over, Corporal Hernandez.”

“You just call me Clyde, you don’t have to get too formal with titles… I would prefer it if you didn’t get too formal with titles.” Clyde felt a last ditch resurgence of confidence, pushed to the edge given the circumstances, he wanted to at least hold his ground with some pride.

“Come with us, please. No need to make a scene.” The captain didn’t sit, even as the bar around Clyde cleared out, dozens of eyes looking at the NSB uniforms with terror.

“I think a scene is already being made.”

“We’ve jammed all implant comms links, no one is recording this… no one but us.” The captain held up two fingers to the barkeep, who nodded with wide-eyes and immediately got to work fetching well vodka and soda water.

“I really don’t want to drink… not if you’re going to be interrogating me. Alcohol in the stomach isn’t good for beatings.”

“We aren’t going to beat you.” The captain smiled with teeth that were too perfect. “Eocene Technologies would raise quite a fuss, and I don’t want to have to deal with that paperwork.”

“Never heard of them.”

“I’m sure they have quite the orientation planned for you… they’re rented out space aboard the Clavicula Geller.” The NSB captain reached over for his freshly poured vodka-soda, sleight-of-hand making $83 Federal Crypto Credits appear on the bar top with a wave of his palm.

“Isn’t that an orbiting hotel?” Clyde didn’t touch the offered mixed drink when the barkeep tried to nudge it the Cosmic Marine’s way.

“My understanding is that there are business suites rented out to those with the cash. Eocene Technologies stock is quite lucrative with each new gene-therapy patent.”

“Are you here to arrest me or give me stock advice?”

“Corporal Hernandez, you are not under arrest. You are just being invited on an extended vacation… your superiors have already been notified… consider this an extended leave.”

No escape, swirling crowds in the gravity bar below… retreating glass panels unveiling the infinite stars above. If Clyde didn’t want to slam his head to the wall and curse his luck, his situation would almost be a storybook.





“Welcome aboard the Clavicula Geller, the Corporate-Scientific owner of this portion of our spacecraft has deemed this to be a restricted area. Please provide proper identification to proceed, or security will be notified.” The floating robot had an LED panel displaying the inflated face of Douglas Mason, founder of Eocene Technologies and four decades deceased, though the laser targeting array dangling below the bulbous head jerked like a jellyfish’s tendrils.

“We’re just leaving a delivery.” The NSB captain pushed the unshaven Clyde forward, past the twitching robot.

“Accepted! Accepted!” The light array beneath the floating head turned a brilliant shade of green, lasers refracted by mirrors that cast spirals across the Cosmic Marine’s disheveled form.

Two days of travel, confined to a NSB brig. They told him he wasn’t ‘officially’ arrested, but they certainly treated him like he was during the interplanetary journey. All the way from Old Earth to Nova Pluto, an artificially forged microplanet in the Kuiper Belt. Smaller than the original, but technically warmer due to a fusion core. Trade-offs, a glimmer of sunlight worth the sacrifice in gravity… at least until bone decay entered the equation. Old Cosmic Marine advice, jokes, and criticisms all wrapped into little idioms and phrases.

“Follow me, Corporal Hernandez. We at Eocene Technologies always treat a soldier right.” The robot sputtered.

“I’m a Marine.” Clyde blinked, mouth curled into a snarl.

“Down this hallway, third door on the left. CORPORAL. HERNANDEZ. MARINE. Salutations. Salutations. Approved. Approved. Dr. Waldameer and the rest of the staff have prepared a welcome!” The robot lifted a small tendril to point out the vacuum-sealed door where the supposed gathering was to occur.

“Thanks.” Clyde watched as the NSB retreated without as much as a goodbye.

No hired guns to stick around and watch him, not that it would do much good considering how far they were from all the major spaceports. Nova Pluto… The luxury space hotel must be on the ‘relaxing’ leg of the extended solar system tour. The only tourists coming and going would be on private space yachts, craft constructed with the intent of deep space travel. No chance of stowing away, and no money to potentially buy a ticket… just trapped in the corporate sector, where the luxury vacation packages were swapped for government tax-credited research labs and start-up incubators.

“They didn’t let him shave.” A woman in a lab coat leaned against the exterior window of the conference room, a panel-projection of deep space.

Deep in the bowels of the station, no means of viewing the interstellar twilight sans what external video ports provided. Sometimes embellished by artificial reality, sometimes comets added wholly through CGI… same tech used for interstellar landing and spacecraft raiding missions. None of the smoke and mirrors were anything new to Clyde, in fact it felt just like old hat… a slightly more comfortable outer space.

“Yeah, they didn’t let me shave. Kept me caged up like an animal.” Clyde looked around the room at the gathered staff, the withered faces of aged doctors and the youthful vigor of freshly hired assistants… Everyone between those two groups looked like rubber placed over forged steel.

“We didn’t want the NSB to get involved, but you were our top candidate by a sizable margin.” The woman by the videoport audibly sighed.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why don’t you take a seat?” The woman pointed at the circular table that looped around the conference room, littered only by a few stray napkins, crumbs, and the odd cup of coffee.

“I’m fine standing.”

“Your physical combat readiness tests were deemed stellar, though you have a bit of a rebellious streak according to the behavioral examinations… no doubt why you were passed over for leadership… and special operations.” The woman walked up to the disheveled soldier. “And we understand how much that can sting.”

“You brought me here to insult me?”

“No, we brought you here to make you a super soldier. Elite. What you’ve always dreamed about, ever since you first enlisted.”

“Cosmic Marine. Not a soldier.” Clyde’s voice, gruff and strained, almost functioned on auto-pilot for the correction.

So normative was the reflex, that the other Marines always playfully teased him as the man who took the job just a bit too seriously.

“What. An. Attitude.” The woman grinned as she rubbed her chin.

“Doctor Waldameer, the medical bay and recovery suite are prepared.” A mustached orderly spoke up from the far end of the room.

Clyde’s eyes twitched at the words. Medical bay and recovery suite? What exactly were they planning on doing with him… doing to him?”

“Why don’t you follow me?” Dr. Waldameer never broke her grin, even as she gestured for Clyde to wander back into the hallway.

“Why don’t you let me shave and freshen up?” Clyde grunted in turn.

“Fine. But in thirty minutes you’ll be in my office so I can explain the more delicate aspects of this once in a lifetime opportunity.” Dr. Waldameer placed her hand on the shoulder of one of her assistants. “Charles, please take Corporal Hernan- Clyde… where he can freshen up. Maybe with a shave, he’ll give us a smile.”

“If all kidnappers treated their victims this well, Stockholm Syndrome would be an epidemic.” The sarcastic retort sounded better in Clyde’s head than across his lips.

“Please, there’s a lot for us to discuss. Hurry along now.” Dr. Waldameer released Clyde to her associates.



“There was a general consensus among military leadership at the time of the uprising on Grande Furcas that Cosmic Marine assault-landings could crush any rogue planet without total industrial autarky due to limited defensive options. This has held true for the past 31 years.” Dr. Waldameer’s finger clicked through the presentation.

For once, Clyde missed the artificial space projections. Boring star maps failed to hold his attention, even as he shivered in his chair at the merciless air conditioning permeating through Dr. Waldameer’s office. Freshly showered and clean-cut, the Cosmic Marine yawned as the doctor proceeded with her history lesson.

“However, the situation on Vepar has proven this theory terribly wrong.”

“Yeah, I had friends die on Vepar. Planet is only 15% occupied… and not even the main population centers. Look, Doc, I’ve been briefed on this before…”

“But were you there?”

“No, I was deployed in another system.”

“Then you need to know exactly why we’ve chosen the treatment you’re about to undertake.” Dr. Waldameer stared at her soon-to-be test subject.”

“Do I? Because I haven’t signed any paperwork, and my understanding of the law is that you can’t force me.”

“That… is where you’re wrong…” Dr. Waldameer set down the remote and flipped open a notepad. “Very… very wrong… We basically own you now, Clyde. Your own government sold you to us. You’re our little experiment that will help the Concordia Society triumph on Vepar. Achieving interstellar harmony… by crushing any pockets of savagery.”

“Right.”

“Vepar is a swamp world, of shallow oceans and marshy plains.” Dr. Waldameer retrieved a syringe and glass vial from a hidden shelf under her desk.

“I’ve heard of nano-augmentation… but I don’t see how stronger muscles alone are going to help anyone fighting there.”

“It isn’t strength we’re seeking, it’s mixed efficacy on both water and land. Providing the necessary tactical advantage.” The lights in the lab went out, only the projection screen illuminated against the wall, a stained-glass display of different fighting vehicles, drop-ships and hovercraft. “To end the stalemate and bring the rebellious states back into line.”

“Mixed efficacy. I see.” Clyde looked as the projection shifted to a 3D reconstruction of a small, four-legged mammal… though not one that the Marine was familiar with.

The rubbery CGI beast was stocky, with heavy blunt claws and webbed feet. A sparse layer of hair coated muscular shoulders and a broad head ending in a muzzle lined with sharp teeth. The whip-like tail was almost as long as the animal’s entire body, swaying side-to-side like a rudder as the animation progressed.

“What is that?”

“It’s a Pakicetus… whale ancestor. You know the orca, right?” Dr. Waldameer tapped her fingers against the shiny chrome finish of her workspace.

“Yeah I know what an orca is.”

Clyde didn’t hear the bulbous jellyfish robot approach him from behind as the machine bobbed and hovered, dead silent, with an exposed syringe.

“Well… you’re going to learn a lot more.” The grin that crept across Dr. Waldameer’s face was granite carved and sculpted into a gargoyle’s snarl, demonic spirits and ghosts trembling before stony ferocity.

Clyde didn’t hear the extension of the drone’s tendril, but the sting of the needle made him jerk up, a surge of pain immediately crawling along his arm, compelling the man to jump upright from his seat. Paralysis raced across quivering knees, and the Marine tumbled to the floor.

“Those weren’t nanites, that treatment comes later. This is just a little anesthesia, that’s all. It’s going to be a slow journey for your little trip back through time… but on the bright side, you get to say you traveled aboard the Clavicula Geller.”



Day 3

Clyde stared in the mirror of his holding cell, the lodgings more spacious than what he had been subjected to on the shuttle trip from Old Earth to the mobile space hotel-corporate complex… but that didn’t make them by any means luxurious. The traditional barracks arrangement, a single cot, stainless steel toilet and sink, and concrete floors didn’t feel like an interstellar star cruiser, nor even a company office suite. It was a prison with one specific purpose in mind, keeping Clyde inside while the nanomachines churning through his bloodstream converted him into something else.

The Marine’s canines stretched two millimeters longer, pointed enamel tips peeking out over lips acquiring a black sheen that also trickled up his philtrum, now coated with the hint of whisker and unshaven fuzz, to the edges of nostrils that flared wide breathed deep.

Whatever they’d injected him with under the cover of anesthesia was pulsing through him, nanomachines swirling around his heart, twisting his very being. The evolutionary clock being turned backward, his genetic code overwritten in real time.

“We weren’t initially sure which animal to pick for our preliminary test. After all, there were so many options available to us from both the archaeological record and present day… ultimately our decision was randomized.” Dr. Waldameer’s voice echoed off the walls of the cell, reverb from an intercom system integrated into the ceiling. “The Pakicetus was the most basal of whale ancestors… roughly dog-sized though some skeletal remains have been larger. It lived primarily on land, but thrived in the water with adaptations suited for such a lifestyle. As Vepar is predominately marshland, we wanted a creature that would still be strong and mobile on land… but have that adaptive edge for water.”

“So you’re turning me into something that hasn’t lived for millions of years. A fossil. A dinosaur.”

“It’s not quite a dinosaur.”

“It might as well be!” Clyde shouted, his temper flaring as he continued to poke at his dampening nose.

“Because the animal we’ve chosen for your hybridization is a mammal, we feel that the metamorphosis should be relatively smooth.”

“Relatively?”

“The most notable benefits will be increased lung capacity, strength, and endurance. Oh and heightened senses too, predominantly your sense of smell and hearing. We’ve taken great care not to affect your eyes with any possible degeneration of the ocular tissue, it’s likely this animal did not have as attuned vision as a human being. Keep the best, drop the rest. At least when we’re talking about features.”

“Features…”

“Further changes shouldn’t be too painful, the nanomachines should numb the nerves of targeted bone and muscle structures.”


Day 10

Thickening toes cast a broad, clubbed shadow with thick webbing. Clyde’s face was in shock as he looked at the stubby digits, his nails blunted and darkening as if obscured by dirt. A thin webbing strung between his fingers, though his toes were as of yet unaffected. A bulge at the base of his spine pulsed and spasmed each time he put pressure on it, the sensation of skin ready to burst but yielding at just the last minute. Vertebrate expanding, lengthening… he was growing a tail.

“We weren’t entirely sure if the Pakicetus had webbing between its fingers and toes, so we erred on the side of functionality.” Dr. Waldameer’s voice hissed across the intercom. “Our understanding would be that rather than a 50/50 land-sea split… it would be more 80-20 land-sea. Not truly amphibious.”

“You don’t even really know what you’re turning me into..” Clyde clenched sharpened teeth, the molars expanding to fit his lengthening jawline. He couldn’t feel the jawbones growing like the tail, but each time he checked the mirror, the Marine recoiled as his bulging lips and depressed nose.

“Everything is proceeding according to our initial plan. Adequate tail growth, not too painful… The Pakicetus was technically an ungulate… a mammal with hooves… although the skeletal remains have indicated that the creature’s ‘hooves’ were more claw-like, though still with a thickness of a modern ungulate’s keratin.” The doctor continued on her little spiel while Clyde rubbed his temples.

“Do you think I could get some coffee… or take a walk?’

“Coffee yes, but I’m afraid we can’t let you out. That’s company policy.”

“Oh, my mistake.” Clyde felt the haze slip over his mind, a cloud that could only be cleared by caffeine and meditation.


His dinner that night was fish, almost raw. Sushi was one thing, this plate of random cuts of undercooked fish was another. At first, the Marine recoiled, almost throwing the plate across the room in anger. But the aroma stopped him, the smell of the fresh fish making his enlarged nostrils twitch and his stretching muzzle salivate. Dr. Waldameer was watching him, no doubt, as he caved into instinct and buried his face into the plate. No time to eat with his hands, just scarf down the meal like a ravenous beast. In that moment a part of him was lost, but Clyde couldn’t find the time to care, not when the meal was this delicious.

The only thing that would have made it better was a dip in a pool.


Day 24

Clyde could move his tail, the meter-long appendage no longer solely controlled by involuntary muscle spasms and contractions. Back and forth it swished, the muscles longing for expression, to glide through water.

Was it instinct or curiosity? Clyde couldn’t exactly tell.

“You’re progressing wonderfully.” Dr. Waldameer made a rare personal appearance, her hands pressed against the glass between the hallway and Clyde’s cell.

“You think it's just some joke…” Clyde spat, his rubbery lips still feeling foreign… numb.

“Not a joke, evolution directed by the will of the past. A zeitgeist of DNA. You’re becoming the idealistic weapon, and the technology we’re using on you will open the doorway for further mixtures of humanity with nature.”

“Do I look like a weapon?” Clyde flashed his inhuman incisors, razor-sharp fangs catching the overhead fluorescent lighting with a flash.

“It’s not really about teeth or claws, but about how well you can swim and sprint across marshland. That being said, if you’re trying to impress me… you’re doing a marvelous job.”

The bulge of Clyde’s muzzle gave away any chance at being considered human. Large nostrils snorted to fill his enhanced lungs, and his curved ears swiveled at the slightest noises coming from the air purification system. Meanwhile, the Marine’s hair merged with the rough pelt that emerged from his mottled skin, a blend of brown and blonde fur just sparse enough to keep him from overheating.

“Your physiology is fundamentally changed, your mind populated with the instincts we wanted to cultivate. Isn’t it grand?”

“Grand isn’t the word I would use to describe being your guinea pig…” Clyde looked over at the small nightstand beside his bunk, now cluttered with books and magazines. He’d never been much of a reader, but eventually the teledramas grew stale… how much longer were they going to keep him here.

“Your bone density and muscle fibers are fundamentally enhanced. You’re three times as strong as any human your size!” Dr. Waldameer’s voice carried an incessant joy that made Clyde want to slam his enlarged head against the wall.

They’d probably stop him though, get the nanites churning through his veins to stun him if he actually attempted to hurt himself.

“Yeah I’m sure I’ll be a big hit at the gym, people will be impressed to see my bench press right after they’re all done screaming about how a monster just waltzed in.”

“I think you underestimate people’s capacity to appreciate the future.”

“Are you… are you even human? Have you been on Old Earth? Or are you one of those deep space cadets, born and raised by the Concordia Association?”

“Yes I was on Old Earth… that’s such a ridiculous question… how do you think I acquired such a love for prehistoric life? Not in deep space, I’ll have you know.”

“You just don’t feel like a real person, Doc. Like don’t you care how I feel?”

“I care about,” Dr. Waldameer paused for a good ten seconds. “Finding answers to my company’s problems.”

Clyde tugged at his gummy lips, now stained black and positioned firmly at the tip of his snout. The Marine ran his fingers across his incisors, pausing to feel the sharpness against his fingertip.

“And you think I’ll be the solution?”

“I know you’ll be the solution.”



Day 50

Clyde’s heels arched, his gait forced upon digitigrade hind limbs. The focal point of his new balance was a mixture of balance from his massive tail and the wide grip of his splayed toughened paws with hardened hoof caps expanding from thickened glossy nails. Each step a stomp, and around his tiny cell Clyde did a lot of stomping.

“Pacing is a sign of agitation.”

“I’ve been cooped up here for 7 weeks.” Clyde snarled, his fangs fully grown and jutting from muscular jaws. “7 weeks!”

“You’re getting close to the end of the preliminary metamorphosis… After that, we can segue to training.” Dr. Waldameer’s spoke over the intercom system. It was always a tossup if she’d use the radio or come to the narrow pane of glass.

“Are we even orbiting the same planet?”

“No, the Geller has moved.” Dr. Waldameer’s voice was flush with sadness. “A shame, I appreciated Nova Pluto’s artificial glimmer. Hecate XI has all the darkness but none of the cinema glows.”

“We’re around Hecate XI?” Clyde ran his fingers, tips also capped with little claw-hooves, through his coarse mane of hair. Gone was the military buzz, replaced with something truly bristly, like the faint hairs of a hippopotamus or a mangy wild boar.

“A luxury of circumstance thanks to our founder being generous enough to book Eocene a The Clavicula Geller is faster than most military-grade starships, of course that speed and corresponding ticket price don’t come cheap. Especially not fully rented corporate suites… tax write-offs aside. We pay top dollar.” Dr. Waldameer flicked the microphone, a snap of static across the line.

“Hey! Ow! Why did you do that?!” Clyde’s hands slipped down from his hair to cup ears furred and rounded.

“Just a reflex. Tell me… how much can you hear outside of your cell?’

“It’s hermetically sealed, I can’t hear anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I… I hear whatever music the night shift guard likes to blow out his eardrums with… I think it's the Party Rock Anthem. A remix at least.”

“We want to make sure your sensory developments are adequate. If you can hear that noise transferring through the metal bearings of the filtration system-”

“I don’t know how I hear it, I just want him to stop

“Like this?” Another flick, another burst of static.

“Does Eocene know their head doctor is a sociopath?” Clyde winced, nostrils flaring.

“I’ve heard whispers about me, people aren’t keen to speak ill upon my name. They know that you’re just the beginning. There will be more hybridization, for military and cosmetic purposes.”

“I can’t imagine my fellow Marines will be super thrilled about going through this.”

“Depends, how do you feel?”

“I feel like I want to take a dip in a pool. A very very long dip.”

“Perfect, we wanted to get the right balance of instinctual incentives to encourage-”

“Yeah, you’re messing with my mind to make me alright with what you’re doing to me. I kinda figured that out early on.” Clyde looked at the cell’s mirror, past the cracks caused by late night punches of rage. But no longer did he feel fear in his heart when he saw his altered reflection, while a monster still looked back… how could they look upon him and think this was worth it?



Day 110

A few bubbles preceded Clyde’s open maw erupting from the garden pool, a struggling fish helplessly flailing between his fangs. With a crash, the Pakicetus hybrid crashed back into the murky water, silvery flashes of other fish racing near the froth of the surface, eager to escape a hungry maw.

“Fascinating.” General Haagenti’s cold eyes flashed from behind his lowered sunglasses. The temperature inside the conservatory was kept at a constant 83 degrees with tropical humidity, though the normal crowds of Clavicula Geller passengers were nowhere to be seen. They’d been told there was a chlorine leak, the biodome sealed off for any unofficial access. All so Clyde could take a swim, finally stretching his altered limbs.

“The metamorphosis was a complete success. All hybrids will still be able to operate standard weaponry, utilize equipment with-” Dr. Waldameer nodded, the intensity in her eyes not lost on the general.

“Some modifications, for size differences.” General Haagenti rubbed his chin.

“Yes, of course!”

“It’s workable I suppose…”

Neither were paying close enough attention to Clyde’s eyes and nostrils breaking the pool’s surface tension, drawing closer at a steady pace. The predator nearing prey… the transformed human approaching his superiors… instinct, a balancing act of the psychology of animal dopamine, human vindictiveness, and Clyde’s understanding of the bigger picture.


“I have to hand it to you, Doc. The thrill of the hunt is growing on me… I still hate you for keeping me cramped up in that cell for so long…” When Clyde finally raised his head from the water and spoke, he laughed inside at how the General and Doctor simultaneously flinched.

In that prison… away from his real home, the twilight beaches and tidal flats… the riverbeds and reeds and cattails emerging from muck. But now he was getting a taste of it, of the way he was always meant to live. Inside his mind, gears were turning, clicking. His element, he could feel the slickness of the water off his tawny-hide back… through the thin hairs.

“Sorry, Corporal. It was necessary for the greater good.” General Haagenti looked down at the changed Marine, the thickened muscle and bone, toothy maw emerging from a broad skull, the intelligent yet hungry eyes, and the hoof-like claws attached to humanoid hands. “Restoring order to Vepar is of the utmost priority.”

“I’ve heard Vepar has some of the tastiest fish in the known systems.” Dr. Waldameer smirked.

“Your pay will be increased, and we will get you an officer’s commission… if you’d like.”

Clyde slung his arms up over the edge of the pool, hoof-tips clicking off the cement.

“See I can tell that company and command alike overstepped… and you can’t hide me…” The man-turned-Pakicetus sneered at the pair looming above him.

“We do regret the circumstances.”

“But if it wasn’t me, it would be some other sorry grunt. Right?” Clyde flashed his teeth again, thrilled at how the General squirmed.

Dr. Waldameer was less impressed.

“So will you accept the arrangement?”

“Lie and tell people this was voluntary? While you line my pockets?” Clyde tilted his head, like a puzzled dog addressing its owner. Whether or not it was a voluntary reflex, not even Clyde himself was sure.

“Your treatment is the gold standard for anyone seeking hybridization. There are entire subcultures across many worlds who want access to this technology. For my… I suppose you could say cruelty…”

“Yeah you’re a bit of a sadist, Doc.” Clyde’s tail swished through the water, generating ripples and waves across the surface.

“I just push for progress.”

Clyde crawled out of the pool, his wetsuit and hair dribbling pond water across the pedestrian pathway. His digitigrade stance raised him a good foot taller than he’d been in combat boots, and Clyde now towered over both Dr. Waldameer and a general he served in practice, but had only seen through pictures.

“There’s a shuttle coming for you.” Dr. Waldameer smiled, glint of awe in her eyes as she looked upon her creation.

“I don’t have any things to gather, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Clyde snarled, looked down at hands swollen with muscle. Only a minimum loss of dexterity. Acceptable… according to the higher-ups.

“There will be more briefings on Vepar from the 3rd Shock Army.” General Haagenti noted, his aviator sunglasses firmly back against his eye sockets.

Clyde could only see himself, reflected and distorted. A man twisted into a creature that hadn’t walked upon the earth in over 50 million years. But still with a hint of himself left inside the bipedal prehistoric whale ancestor, same eye color… lingering traces of his old hair. His situation is not something to accept, but to at least work with the pros and temporarily ignore the cons. Newfound strength, the lure of the water… there were worse fates than his.

“I’ll dry off and wait at the shuttle bay.” Clyde clicked his teeth, razor-sharp enamel scraping. “I don’t think there’s anything more I have to say.”





“So we’ve been instructed to transfer you to the reserve barracks at Vepar.” The National Security Battalion captain carried the same robotic expression, no hint of surprise at Clyde’s altered form.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“We’ll make sure your quarters are a bit more amicable this time around, soldier.”

A low growl-grumble built in Clyde’s transformed throat, a mixture of anger and exasperation at a missing term that was more literal and applicable to him than it had ever been before.

“It’s Marine…”