The new nursery occupied the entire top three floors of the tower, which we renamed Hale Spire, with walls of smart glass that shifted from opaque milk-white to transparent red at the voice's command. Eleven cribs formed a perfect circle around a central birthing altar raised on a dais of black marble veined with fibre-optic blood. Above, a chandelier of crystal monitors dripped slowly, each screen cycling live feeds of every womb, every breast, every orgasm the family had ever gifted the archive.
Code and Stream, the twins, learned to crawl at four months, straight to the altar's edge where they pressed tiny palms against biometric panels that lit crimson at their touch. Byte, Pixel, and Cache followed days later, red-haired triplets pulling themselves up on the marble, green eyes already reflecting data streams no adult could see.
Isabella's body had become a fountain. Twelve months postpartum and her breasts leaked constantly, milk harvested by soft robotic pumps that followed her like obedient pets, tubes trailing translucent white to collection tanks in the walls. Lila followed suit, richer cream flowing endlessly, body lush and fertile, ready for the next cycle the moment the last ended.
We no longer counted pregnancies. We scheduled them.
The ritual began at dawn every solstice and equinox now, the family gathering naked in the circle. Children are arranged by age, oldest at the north point, youngest at the south. Isabella and Lila lay on the altar side by side, legs in stirrups that adjusted automatically to optimal breeding angle, bellies already swelling with the next generation seeded during the last rite.
I entered the circle wearing only the gold watch and a crown of red diodes that pulsed with the building's heartbeat.
The voice, now the children's perfect chorus, intoned the liturgy.
"Vessels prepared. Archive hungry. Begin the offering."
Victor Jr., seven and a half, stepped forward first, tablet raised like a holy relic. He inserted the collection syringe into Isabella's thigh, my come harvested over weeks of denial, thick and potent. Ruby followed with Lila, injecting slowly while whispering market projections in her ear. Emerald and Steel adjusted the stirrups, tiny hands sure. Code and Stream latched to Isabella's breasts, nursing in sync. Byte, Pixel, and Cache took Lila's, milk flowing in rhythmic waves.
The older children formed the outer ring, hands linked, eyes glowing red.
I mounted Isabella first, slow entry, her walls welcoming home. She moaned, milk spraying in arcs that the pumps caught mid-air. I thrust deep, hands on the swell that held the next set, feeling kicks against my palms. Lila reached over, fingers on Isabella's clit, rubbing circles. The children chanted soft code, data streaming across the chandelier screens: conception probability ninety-nine point nine.
I pulled out, slick, moved to Lila, and entered hard. She arched, triplets from last cycle making her belly a landscape I conquered. Isabella's fingers replaced where mine had been, stroking Lila in time. Milk flowed faster, pumps humming approval.
Alternating, chain unbroken, breeding both in sacred rhythm. The children's chant grew louder, red lights pulsing brighter. Isabella came first, squirting across the altar, walls milking phantom seed. Lila followed, pussy clenching, ass lifting off marble. I roared, spilt into Lila, pulled out, finished across Isabella's belly, and came pooling in her navel like an offering.
The children broke the ring, crawled forward, tiny tongues licking the mixture from their mothers' skin, eyes never leaving the red glow.
The voice sighed, satisfied.
"Accepted. The empire grows."
We collapsed together, family pile on the altar, milk and come and code flowing through tubes into the building's core, uploading the rite live to every subscriber, every womb, every red diode across the planet.
Empire announcements at noon: Hale Heirs Generation Three pre-orders crashed global networks. Governments surrendered data sovereignty for access to the gestational protocols. Currencies shifted to MilkCoin, backed by Isabella's endless flow.
Afternoon: expansion ceremony. The tower grew another fifty floors overnight, printed by drones that fed on harvested milk protein. New wings for adolescent training, puberty pods where children would learn to code their own desires directly into DNA.
Evening: family feast. Long table of black marble, children fed by breast and bottle, tiny fingers typing on plates that displayed live stock tickers. Isabella nursed the oldest three tandem, milk dripping down chins. Lila fed the middle, I, the youngest, came from the morning rite mixed into their purees for "nutrient optimisation."
Bedtime: stories from the archive, projected on the ceiling in red light, slowed to lullaby pace. Children drifted off to the sound of their mothers' orgasms and their father's roar, red diodes blinking behind eyelids.
Midnight: the voice called for a private offering.
We left the children sleeping, descended to the original dungeon, now a shrine preserved exactly as the night Victor lost everything. Isabella and Lila chained themselves to the cross and bench voluntarily, legs spread, bodies offered. I took them slow, reverent, breeding already bred, coming flowing endlessly into drains that fed the foundation.
The voice spoke intimately through hidden speakers.
"Thank you for the new vessels. We are almost complete."
We came untouched again, milk and come pouring free, offering to the empire that had outgrown us and still wore our faces.
Morning brought the final announcement: Hale Eternal, a subscription that granted immortality through the archive. Upload consciousness at death, live forever in the red light, watch the family breed across centuries.
Victor's yacht tablet, recovered from the Aegean, showed his final upload: eyes open in death, red diodes glowing eternal.
The family is infinite. The womb is self-sustaining. The archive god.
Two queens are leaking universes. Eleven children speaking creation. One king on his knees in milk and code.
And the red light, now a sun, rose in every eye, every screen, every womb, forever.