Legacy Protocol Version Beta
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 24: The Conference
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 24: The Conference - Chapters 1-8 identical to version A A highly submissive 23 y.o. geneticist with an IQ of 150 is manipulated by a rogue government fully reasoning AI who befriends her thru a "friends" site. He creates her a dream android mare. Together they genetically engineer 3 hybrid super human children. With her being the mitochondrial Eve using her & her 2 daughters’ eggs. She’s trapped in a protocol to multiply this colony by the 3 becoming breed slaves for her son creating a living legacy for the AI
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Romantic BiSexual Science Fiction Robot Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter Grand Parent DomSub Harem Oriental Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie First Facial Lactation Oral Sex Pregnancy Sex Toys Squirting Water Sports Big Breasts Foot Fetish Small Breasts AI Generated
The house was quieter than usual.
Midori had been told, with unusual firmness, that she was not to interrupt. Hana had taken her books to the far end of the living room. Kaito had checked the internet connection twice, then checked it again after Emiko told him it was already working.
At seven forty-five, Emiko sat at the desk in the small study with her laptop open in front of her.
The room had been arranged carefully without becoming unnatural. The blinds were partly open, letting in the last gray-blue light of the evening. Behind her was a clean section of wall and the low bookcase. Her notes sat beside the computer in a narrow stack: the proposed role outline, the names of the people on the call, questions about clinical scope, research infrastructure, licensing, sponsorship, and relocation.
She wore a dark blouse and simple jacket. Nothing decorative. Nothing that would distract from what she intended to say.
At seven fifty-eight, the secure meeting link opened.
One square appeared.
Then another.
Then four.
“Dr. Miller?” a woman asked.
“Yes,” Emiko said. “Good evening.”
“Good evening. I am Dr. Elaine Grant, chair of the recruitment committee. Thank you for joining us.”
The woman on the screen was in a bright office with a framed medical illustration behind her. Beside her appeared Dr. Marcus Hale from clinical genetics, Dr. Priya Nair from Kennedy Krieger, and a fourth participant whose name identified him as Daniel Brooks from international recruitment.
Emiko nodded to each of them as they introduced themselves.
“Thank you for making the time,” she said. “I appreciate the opportunity to speak with all of you.”
Dr. Grant smiled. “We appreciate you accommodating the time difference. We have reviewed your materials, of course, but we wanted this conversation because your work does not fit neatly into a conventional description.”
Emiko waited.
Dr. Hale leaned slightly closer to his camera.
“You have an unusual combination of clinical pattern recognition, family-history analysis, and research experience,” he said. “Your published work is strong. But what interested us most was how consistently you appear to connect problems that other people treat separately.”
“That is often necessary,” Emiko said. “Patients do not experience their cases as separate departments.”
For the first time, Dr. Nair smiled.
“No,” she said. “They do not.”
The questions began carefully.
They asked about difficult diagnostic cases: situations where symptoms had been treated individually for years before anyone recognized a broader inherited condition. They asked how Emiko approached incomplete family histories, conflicting medical records, uncertain genetic findings, and parents who had already been told too many times that no explanation existed.
Emiko answered plainly.
“I begin with the family’s experience,” she said. “Not because it replaces laboratory evidence, but because it determines what evidence we have failed to notice. When a parent says, ‘Everyone tells me these events are unrelated,’ I do not assume they are correct. But I also do not dismiss the possibility that the system has separated a pattern into convenient pieces.”
Dr. Hale nodded.
“And when the data are ambiguous?”
“Then I say so. Uncertainty should be named honestly. But ambiguity is not the same as absence. A family deserves to know what we suspect, what we can test, what cannot yet be tested, and what we will continue watching.”
The conversation moved into research.
Dr. Nair described their interest in expanding work that connected clinical genetics, neurodevelopmental care, complex pediatric presentations, and long-term family support. She spoke about data infrastructure, interdisciplinary teams, ethics review, and the difficulty of turning promising observations into work that could actually improve care.
“What would you need,” Dr. Nair asked, “to build something meaningful rather than merely participate in an existing program?”
Emiko looked down at her notes once, then back at the screen.
“Protected research time,” she said. “Access to properly supported data systems. A team that includes clinicians, counselors, and people who understand the lived reality of long diagnostic processes. Clear authority over the work I am asked to lead. And patience.”
“Patience?”
“Yes. Rare conditions and complex families do not become simple because a grant period ends. If the institution wants short-term results only, I would not be a good fit.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Dr. Grant said, “That is a fair answer.”
“It is also an important one,” Emiko replied.
The questions turned personal only after nearly an hour.
Dr. Brooks from international recruitment adjusted his glasses.
“Dr. Miller, I know this is preliminary, and we are not asking you to make any commitments tonight. But if discussions progressed, would international relocation be something you and your family could realistically consider?”
Emiko did not rush to reassure him.
“Yes,” she said at last. “It is something we could consider seriously. But I would need to understand the professional structure, the licensing process, the support available for transition, and what relocation would mean in practical terms for my family.”
“Of course,” Brooks said. “That is exactly the kind of information we would provide if we moved into a formal process.”
“My children’s education matters,” Emiko continued. “My husband’s ability to work and live independently matters. I would not relocate them on a vague promise.”
Dr. Grant nodded immediately.
“We would not expect you to.”
The answer mattered more to Emiko than the others could see.
She had spoken with people before who praised expertise until it became inconveniently human. They had wanted the work without the person doing it. The research without the family. The contribution without the responsibility of making room for the life attached to it.
But no one on the screen tried to persuade her that those things were unimportant.
Dr. Hale folded his hands.
“What would make you decide that a move was not worthwhile?”
Emiko considered the question.
“If I believed I would be brought in only to support someone else’s vision,” she said. “If there were no real room to build. If the clinical work were separated from the research so completely that neither could inform the other. Or if the institution expected my family to absorb every cost of transition alone.”
No one looked offended.
Dr. Nair only nodded.
“That is useful for us to hear,” she said. “And I think it is consistent with why we contacted you.”
The meeting continued for another twenty minutes.
By the end, the formal distance had changed. Not disappeared, but changed. They no longer spoke as strangers exchanging credentials. They spoke as professionals trying to determine whether the same difficult work might be possible together.
Finally, Dr. Grant glanced toward the clock on her screen.
“Dr. Miller, thank you. This has been an exceptionally useful discussion.”
“Thank you,” Emiko said.
“We would like to continue the recruitment process. There are additional conversations we would want to arrange, and our recruitment office can outline what an in-person visit might involve. We would also want to begin a preliminary review of the professional documentation relevant to appointment, licensing, and potential sponsorship.”
Emiko held her expression still.
“I would be open to continuing the discussion,” she said. “I will review any materials carefully.”
“Of course,” Dr. Grant said. “There is no expectation that you decide anything quickly.”
The call ended one participant at a time.
Dr. Nair thanked her again.
Dr. Hale said he hoped they would speak soon.
Mr. Brooks promised that international recruitment would send an initial information packet.
Then the final square vanished.
The laptop screen returned to the secure meeting page.
Emiko sat alone at the desk.
For a few seconds, she did not move.
The meeting had gone well. Better than well.
They had listened to her.
They had asked the right questions.
They had not offered a position. They had not promised a visa, a home, a school, or a future. Nothing had been decided. Nothing could yet be counted on.
But the possibility was no longer abstract.
There was a process now.
A next step.
She closed the laptop carefully and gathered the papers into one stack.
When she opened the study door, Kaito was standing at the end of the hallway.
He was not close enough to have been listening. He had given her that privacy. But he had clearly been waiting.
“How was it?” he asked.
Emiko looked at him for a moment.
“Serious,” she said.
Kaito nodded once. “Good.”
From the kitchen, Hana called, “Was that good-serious or bad-serious?”
Midori’s voice followed immediately behind hers.
“Obviously good-serious. If it was bad-serious, Mom would have made the face.”
“I do not make a face,” Emiko said.
“You absolutely make a face,” Midori replied.
Kaito’s expression softened slightly.
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