The Orville Apr 2026

A quick transport later, Ed, Kelly, Alara, and Isaac (the Kaylon whose expression of perpetual mild disdain never changed) stood in the Sagan ’s dripping cargo bay. They found two survivors: Dr. Aris Fen, a brilliant xenobiologist, and her husband, a nervous engineer named Klytus who was trying to re-route power through a gelatinous cube.

Isaac stepped forward, his optical sensor glowing. “Fascinating. The cloud’s digestive enzymes are non-random. They target specific mineral structures and organic compounds with the precision of a sommelier selecting a vintage. The moon it was consuming was rich in tricyclic hydrocarbons and volcanic salts. A ‘complex, earthy’ profile, one might say.”

Ed turned to Bortus. “Status?”

Kelly blinked. “The what?”

“No,” Ed whispered.

Back on the bridge, the crew was picking themselves up off the floor.

The Orville and the gutted Sagan were ejected from the nebula like a watermelon seed, tumbling end over end into clear space. The cloud, looking visibly offended, contracted into a tight, angry ball and zipped away at warp speed, probably to find a nice, bland asteroid to cleanse its palate. The Orville

And then, the cloud spat them out.

“A hundred-year aged Moclan fermented seaweed-malt liquor,” Dr. Fen read the label. “With notes of burnt tires, regret, and ‘a finish that lasts longer than a Union-Danube war.’ It’s perfect.”

Klytus sighed, wiping slime off his face. “My wife believes the cloud isn’t mindless. It’s a gourmand. It’s been selectively consuming celestial bodies for billions of years, developing a cosmic palate.” A quick transport later, Ed, Kelly, Alara, and

“Okay,” Ed said, leaning back in his command chair. “Standard first contact protocol. Kelly, hail it.”

Dr. Fen pointed a trembling finger at Isaac. “ Thank you! It rejected the Sagan because our hull was coated in cheap, mass-produced duranium alloy. It’s like a wine connoisseur spitting out a mouthful of soda pop. But now you’ve brought the Orville —with its unique blend of military-grade armor, recycled shuttle fuel residue, and whatever that smell is from the mess hall—you’ve given it an amuse-bouche !”

Just then, Dr. Fen hailed them. “Captain Mercer,” she said, a wild, maniacal grin on her face. “You’ve just committed the first act of biological warfare using a fermented beverage. I’m submitting a paper. Title: ‘Palate Cleansing at the Galactic Scale: How a Moclan’s Poor Life Choices Saved the Union.’” Isaac stepped forward, his optical sensor glowing