The viewscreen showed the ice moon, and the gas giant beyond. Between them, the enemy fleet: a thousand ships, all severe angles and glittering running lights.
“There sure are a lot of ‘em,” observed the helmsman.
“I hear they breed like rabbits,” shared the weapons officer.
The Captain spoke from behind them. “They’re asexual, actually. They bud.”
“They do what now?”
The Captain’s matter-of-fact tone belied the seriousness of their situation. “They grown their young on their backs. When the embryo is mature enough to survive on its own, it falls off.”
“Ours ain’t pretty either.” The helmsman shuddered.