Lena swung again. And again. And again. The wrench rose and fell, striking the creature's head, its chest, its shoulders. Each blow landed with solid, meaty impacts. Each blow would have been fatal to a human. The creature didn't flinch. It didn't stagger. It just stood there, smiling, letting her exhaust herself.
Finally, it caught the wrench in one hand.
It squeezed. The solid steel crumpled like aluminum foil in its grip. It tossed the ruined tool aside and reached for her.
Lena tried to dodge, tried to float away, tried to do anything. But the creature was too fast. Its arm shot out—extending, stretching, bending in ways no arm should bend—and grabbed her by the throat. It lifted her off the floor of the cabin, holding her at eye level. Its grip was gentle but absolute. She couldn't break it. She couldn't slip free. She could only hang there and wait.
Its other hand came up.
The fingers had changed. They were longer now, sharper, each one tapering to a razor edge. The nails had grown into curved claws that gleamed in the cabin lights. The creature placed one claw against Lena's sternum and pressed down gently. Just enough to dimple the fabric of her flight suit. Just enough for her to feel the sharp point against her skin.
"We will make this quick," it said. "You deserve that much. You fought. You tried to run. You tried to warn your world. Most of your kind just scream and die. You showed courage. We respect courage. We will remember it when we walk among your people."
Lena looked into those red, glowing eyes. Into the ancient hunger that lurked behind them. She thought about her mother in Russia, who still sent her care packages for every mission. About her brother, who had wanted to be an astronaut too but had settled for engineering. About all the people she would never see again.
"F**k you," she said.
The creature's smile widened. For just a moment, something like genuine amusement flickered in those red depths.
"Wonderful," it said. "Absolutely wonderful. We chose the right species to wear. You are all so defiant, even at the end. It makes the meal so much more satisfying."
Its claw pressed deeper.
And sliced downward.
Lena felt herself being opened from sternum to groin. The pain was beyond anything she had ever experienced. Beyond description. Beyond comprehension. It was white-hot and freezing cold, sharp and dull, everything and nothing all at once. She watched, still conscious, still aware, as the creature's hand delved into her opened body and began to pull things out.
Her intestines first. A long wet rope that the creature examined with casual curiosity, holding it up to the light. It took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. The motion was almost refined. Almost human.
"Fear," it said. "Your intestines are rich with fear. The fear of dying alone in space. The fear of never seeing your family again. The fear of failing your crew. But also hope. You hoped you would escape. You hoped you would warn your world. That hope tastes... sweet. Like honey on burned toast."
It reached in again and pulled out her liver.
"Anger. So much anger. At us for killing your friends. At yourself for not saving them. At the universe for being so cruel and random and unfair. We like anger. It gives the meat a pleasant heat. A spice that lingers on the tongue."
Lena's vision was fading. The cabin was growing dark around the edges, the lights dimming one by one. She could feel herself dying, feel her consciousness slipping away like water through cupped hands. The pain was becoming distant now, muffled, like it was happening to someone else.
The creature's face was the last thing she saw. Evans' face, but not Evans. Those red eyes, ancient and patient and hungry, watching her die with something that might have been respect. Or might have been hunger. Or might have been both.
"We will remember you, Lena Petrova," it said. Its voice was soft now. Almost gentle. "When we walk among your kind, we will remember your courage. Your fear. Your hope. Your anger. You will live on in us forever. Every human we consume will carry a piece of you. You will never truly die."
It bit into her heart.
And Lena Petrova was gone.
---
The Return to Earth
The creature finished eating.
It left nothing of Lena behind. No bones. No blood. No trace that she had ever existed except the memories it had absorbed from her flesh. It knew everything now. How to fly the ship. How to navigate. How to communicate with Mission Control in a way that would not raise suspicion. It knew her mother's face, her brother's name, the small apartment in Moscow where she had grown up.
It sat in the pilot's seat—Lena's seat, still warm from her body heat—and examined the controls. Its fingers, now returned to their Evans shape, danced across the console with practiced ease. It understood everything. Lena had been an excellent pilot. Her skills were now its skills. Her knowledge was now its knowledge.
The ship was already on course for Earth. Lena had set the trajectory before she died, aiming for a safe splashdown in the Pacific Ocean where recovery teams would be waiting. The creature considered this. A splashdown would mean recovery teams. Questions. Medical examinations. Debriefings. It would be difficult to escape unnoticed.
It adjusted the course.
The spacecraft's engines fired again, pushing it onto a new trajectory. Not the Pacific Ocean. Not any ocean. A remote region of Mexico. The Sierra Madre Oriental mountain range. Dense jungle. Steep cliffs. Deep caves. No recovery teams. No witnesses. Just endless green canopy where a creature could disappear and begin its work.
The creature sat back and watched the Earth grow larger in the viewport.
Blue and white and green. Beautiful. Teeming with life. Billions of humans, each one a potential meal, a potential disguise, a potential vessel for the ancient thing that had waited so long in the dark. It would consume this world slowly, carefully, learning every species, every culture, every language. It would wear a thousand faces and live a thousand lives. It would grow stronger with every meal until nothing could stop it.