Author: TPH

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 4

For the first few weeks, they fought against the machine – purposefully working slow in protest.

The next few weeks after that, they returned to routine, albeit grumbling all the time.

However, It was within Month 5 of the great staffing, resupply and fitting of Reach, in the Year of Our Lord 2184, in the third dimension, in the Sol system (wherein Humanity was born and accidentally yeeted into the stars) whereupon arguably the most momentous occasion of the last 40 years occurred:

Jonathan Protaganista and Aisha Batal Alrawaya completed an honest-to-God full day’s worth of work.

It was such an anomaly that at first HR believed it to be a mistake; this forced both Jon and Aisha to spend an additional 15 minutes at work past their leave-by time to verify that yes, they were in fact at their stations doing their jobs, and no – it wasn’t a motorized blow-up doll sitting at their desks. Again. Their supervisor was eventually called in, who corroborated their stories – and furnished further proof of his eyewitness account by producing no less than 100 lottery tickets for the Powerball 37 drawing that same day. In a bizarre twist of fate (and the sudden, totally rational fear that the two of them were replaced by body snatchers from Pluto) HR decided to give them the next few days off – as a thank you for actually doing real work for once.

“I just don’t get it.”

Aisha shrugged, pouring herself another shot of tequila. “Who cares? Shit, if I knew working hard would get us more time off I would’ve started earlier! Like in college. Or preschool.”

“Well, ok, fair point – but I mean more what they’re doing with the first round of colonists. The Reach is going to be jumping with a full escort, right?”

There was the sound of glass-on-table as the empty shot was slammed down, Aisha grunting for a moment before replying. “Fuck. Yeah, I guess so? Couple of our own navy with some Senate heavy-hitters. I mean, it is our first colony ship, and everyone wants to make nice. Bury the hatchet and all that.”

“No.” Jon murmured, staring out the digital “windows” of the bar that they were currently occupying at 11AM on a Tuesday. Reach sat heavy and fat, like a bundle of cigars taped together a little to thickly in the middle, a swarm of lights dancing around it’s entire form in a symphony of engineering, operations and logistics. The majority of work was done; seeds and soil, livestock and pets, people and personnel were already on-board with their families, settling in to what would amount to a couple-month stay on-ship before a final drop to the new world.

Literally, in their cases.

“I mean more like… Sure there was a waitlist to go, but they’re doing 3 rounds of colonization? And it’s not to meet demand – It just seems weird.”

The bottle of Tequila was upended, the last few drops splashing into the half-full shot glass. “Mmm. Grunts first – grunts first always. Then the middlemen to make shit difficult for the grunts, then the upper class to pretend they did it all by themselves and never needed the grunts in the first place.”

Jon laughed mirthlessly, rolling his eyes. “Dramatic today, aren’t we?”

Aisha whined something half-heartedly mocking in response, downing the half-shot of tequila with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever. “Nngh. Jon, what’s your actual fucking question? Whenever you start thinking you get moody – your brain’s not used to working that hard-”

“Firstly, fuck you, you fuck like a limp fish and Faiza told me she thinks of Batgirl when she fucks you.”

“Good taste. S’why I’m gon’ marry her.”

“Secondly, the mix seems super weird. Construction crews, fine. Electricians – ok. Doctors, no shit. But Botanists? Xenobiologists? Survivalists? This world’s been occupied before we fucking discovered fire or some shit, why are they going?”

“Iunno. To prove that their shiny new degree actually means something? Gotta prove to daddy that his creds were worth spending, or that you really did need that decade to backpack around pan-africa to find yourself~”

Jon turned to look at his now very drunk comrade, scooting his beer closer to his side of the table and away from longing eyes. “Wow. I mean, I always heard lesbians had daddy issues buhOWWWW~” The statement died in his throat by a savage – well, ‘savage’ drunken kick connected with his shin.

“Asshole.” Aisha stated, resting her chin on the table.

Jon responded to the insult by slamming back his beer, letting the larger glass thunk heartily against the faux wood table. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, we got 3 days off – fucking finally – so what do you want to do with ‘em?”

There was a small pause before Aisha looked up from her headrest, eyes only taking a few moments to focus. “Hey. Do you suppose the raid servers are empty cause everyone’s pulling overtime?”

They shared a look – You know the type I’m talking about. The sudden realization that all the cheaters, wall-hackers, chinese gold farmers (yes it’s still a problem in the future), enemy guilds, faction whores and tryhard powergamers were otherwise offline and their game would be… untainted. Pure. NPC-rich. Loot rich.

There would be nobody to stop them from powergaming.

“RACEYOUTOTHEDECK-”

“FUCK-”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was sweating, hard. Figuratively.

It had been 6 months of blood, sweat and tears to get to this point; the general orientation class was a breeze, and so he foolishly signed up for the intermediate offering. Then the advanced. Soon, what started as an undefined but necessary urge to work with the new colonists had morphed into an almost full-blown obsession. He parlayed his connections, his ‘life experience’, and his damn good grades to end up in the group that was presenting a final student project to the Gentle Expanse/Silver City tourism and public safety board.

It was 6 months worth of work condensed into a wordless set of diagrams that would help educate any Senate species, regardless of what their base written script was, or if their translators were working, on how to interact with the tiny-chompers. Hundreds, literalhundreds of iterations were put together in order to make the best possible collage of information, presented in the most clear possible way. Ngruzren’s team wasn’t even presenting the entire library of work; theirs was literally just a small chunk of a larger effort. Still, it was before both a city and planetary board of directors, and needed to be given the due weight and respect of the job put before him.

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was sweating, hard… over a free safety pamphlet.

He stayed in the sideline, letting his body language show that he was extremely interested in what his Jornissian colleague was saying – he wasn’t really, the team lead had rehearsed the speech so often that he could say it from memory in a pinch, but presentation was everything at this stage and so he let his body show he was occupied in rapt attention while his mind wandered.

His dad kept looking at him with a look, a looky look that looked… looky, and Ngruzren didn’t know what to make of it. The night-rage thing… ok, granted, he looked fine but black was so limiting as a color and really, he looked better when he highlighted his own natural fur color and stayed with pastel clothing and bright accessories. The large mane wasn’t such a big pain-in-the-tail to keep as he was cautioned about, and… ok, it was nice that Mom was taking more time at home after winning the bid. But that’s not why he stopped with the night-rage hassle… honest.

Ngruzren kept going back to that look, like a hunter to the tracks of his missing prey. It didn’t make any sense! Sure, he might have suddenly found his passion in these new aliens, but is that such a bad thing? His life before was going to be reviewing drone core samples and sitting at a desk doing paperwork! Sure, steady and well-paid work, but boring as all get-out. At least here he could interact with people! Sure, they might be smaller, and weaker, and need help and should be herded properly and sometimes needed their food prepa-

Ngruzren inhaled, sharply, as the realization hit him so hard he physically swayed. He was packless, he went into season, the tiny-chompers were so small and cute, his father’s knowing look-

A sharp round of applause broke his epiphany, and he looked around confused for a moment – until he stood up, joining the rest of his team, clapping for some reason.

A female Dorarizin – the name escaped Ngruzren at the moment – stood, professionally adjusting her chest stays. “{Excellent presentation! We are most pleased to accept this addition to the localized training directory! I’m also speaking for my associates here – but given your team’s drive and dedication, that it would be remiss of us to not allow you all the chance to work with the tiny-chompers as well.}” Was she – was she looking directly at him? “{We still have many more positions to go through, but I’m almost certain your passion will intertwine with those open gaps and fill them quite nicely.]”

Ngruzren tilted his head slightly… Was. Was that a wink?

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr blinked, hard, as the female who was old enough to be his mother and was probably happily married already, continued to talk about next steps, promoting synergy, and other managerial talk, giving that same look to… to everyone else in the room.

Ugh.

Swipressnssren stared, unblinking, at his Dorarizin table-mate as he downed another bag of Hufflepuffs – what were essentially triple-fried skin-rinds of some sort of animal, the things powdered and coated with various savory and sweet flavors. Nori had to have devoured at least 12,000 calories in the past 10 minutes, and that’s just what Swipressnssren had personally witnessed.

“<Um. I take it the meeting didn’t go well?>”

Nori growled something noncommittal before swallowing another mouthful of the trashy junk food. “[No. Went fine, everything’s fine.]”

“<Hmm. Doesn’t sound fine.>”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr crumpled up the tinfoil packaging, dropping it onto the heap of it’s bretheren on the table. “[The design was approved, the presentation went off without a hitch, and I am almost totally certain that I’ll have a position as a warmcuddle tour guide within the year. Frozen hells, I’ll probably even be in charge of an entire city block or two. Yay.]”

Swipressnssren sank into his coils slightly as he studied the alien-yet-familiar body language of his friend, his hands resting idly on his midsection coil. “<The amount of venom you just spat in that statement would make any old tooth proud. What’s going on, really?>”

Ngruzren – Nori, as he was called in the Jornissian’s tongue – frowned, grumbling something untranslatable as he stared at the tabletop before him, almost boring a hole through it with the intensity of his gaze.

“<Come on. I know that thing with your last… girlfriends didn’t work out->”

“[Why are you assuming it’s a girl problem?]”

“<Well, is it?>” The Jornissian hummed, rolling his shoulders in curiosity. “<It’s either women or work at this stage in life – unless you’ve found out you’re a proud papa->”

There was another nondescript mumble, and Swipressnssren stuttered. “<Wh-what? With whom->”

“[Ugh, you’re sounding as bad as my Mother.]” Nori smirked, his hands reaching up to play with the metal wrappers to what was left of his prodigious feast. “[No, it’s not girls, I promise. It’s just… well, like. Have you ever just caught yourself doing something stupid-]”

“<Me? Never.>”

“[Hah. Try to pretend you’re mortal, for a moment. But like. You catch yourself doing something stupid and then realize why?]”

“<…Introspection. You’re telling me you just now discovered introspectio->”

“[No, you coiled shit.]” Nori grinned – ah, finally a smile! – flicking a rolled up ball of tin at the Jornissian. “[I just… Well, you know I’ve been in an extended season because I have no pack.]”

“<Right. I mean, I thought you looked good with the whole black-sun thing going on->”

“[Just. Ok. Um, Thanks. But. So I’m in extended season with no female packmates. Brain’s flooded with all sorts of hormones and stuff.]”

Swipressnssren quirked his eyebrow as high as it could physically go – which wasn’t too far, given his physiology and the musculature of his hood, so it was a true feat. “<A… are you trying to tell me where hatchlings come from?>”

That comment earned him an entire fistful of wrappers bouncing off his head.

“[No, UGH. Look. Just… I’m in a mood right now – and I know, shutup – and like. I’m nearing the end of my development, and historically guys would’ve paired off by now – and a few months ago, we started to get into this warmcuddle research kick, right?]”

“<Riiight…. I’m not… you’re a cuddlefucker?>”

“[No.]” Ngruzren-of-Arzgr deadpanned, his hands kneading his forearms roughly. “[I just realized why I wanted to even do all of this.]”

“<Why’s that?>”

Nori looked up at his friend, as 1 million KM above him – at that very moment, in fact – Reach broke warp, gravitational waves rippling through the first alien star system that Mankind would call home.

“[I want pups.]”

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 3

Pip

“[-And now, in local news. Another illegal personnel smuggling operation was busted earlier today operating around the Gas Giant Cloudpearl; Senate Teams lead by the H.S.T.’s own regional law enforcement discovered a network of hollowed-out asteroids at the edge of the gravity well. As they were discovered within 5 calendar years of creation squatters’ rights will not-]”

Pip

“[-letion of the dome, which allows for their own day-night rythm.]” The Jornissian professor on-screen said, shifting slightly in his seat.

“[I see! But won’t they be able to adapt like the rest of us?]” The Karnakian host questioned, leaning over his table with an eager expression on his face. “[I thought one of the reasons why we won the bid was because our planet and theirs are so similar?]”

“[From an atmospheric and gravitic comparison – yes, absolutely. However, we rotate much slower so no – a day on Gentle Expanse is roughly 1 1/2 of their entire day/night cycles on Dirt. It’s not a question of adapting to a couple extra hours of work or rest, but an extreme marathon of staying up and sleeping. I’ve been assured by the tiny-chompers that staying up longer than 13 hours at a time begins to impair their judgment, with extreme cases – 20 hours or so – even leading to audio/visual hallucinations.]”

“[Good heavens! So is that also the reasons for those isolation pods popping up around the colonization zo-]”

Pip

“[-ning is complimentary, but mandatory if you wish to be a tiny-chomper local guide or coworker. For an introductory rate of 500GRC you can enroll in our 10-week certified basic training course, enabling you to qualify for further specialized interaction opportunities. Top Mark Training Company: Preparing you for the workplace of tomorrow, today.]”

Pip

“{Daaaaaaaaad~}”

Dzgranra-of-Arzgr sighed as he worked the hard light projector, the remote long lost to him. His wives had thankfully put the lump of titanium in some reach of the house that would be safe from all prying eyes and paws – including those of his eldest son, all of his daughters, and the wives themselves. It wasn’t the first time the remote had been lost, but the fact that they put a child-lock on all remote broadcasting to the panel was both touching, and infuriating.

As if his children were so ill-mannered to watch a pay-to-own series without asking first.

As if he didn’t deserve to watch more pay-to-own series!

Pip

“[-st saying, if you’re not planning on serving them you shouldn’t be forced to qualify! These new regulations are going to put me out of business – I’m a Jornissian-only establishment; I can’t and don’t cater to anyone else, and that’s never been a problem-]”

The not-insignificant pile of pups that were congealed on the center rug began to wiggle as one; Dad was concentrating, and this could not be allowed to continue.

“{Daaaaaaaad it’s gonna staaaaart~}”

“{I know, loves, I know.}”

Pip

“[-TO SAVE THE DAY-]”

“{-THE SUPER SPACE TEAM, HOORAY!}” The entire mass of under-9-year-old pups cheered at once at the top of their lungs, temporarily deafening their father and quite possibly rattling all the windows in the house.

For the first – or last – time that week (depending on when you consider the week to start and end), Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was woken up 15 minutes before his alarm clock by the cacophony of voices, and smiled.

The evil Dr. Dark laughed triumphantly as she held the tiny-chomper fiercely by the shoulder, the smaller alien crying out in pain as the stonification ray was pressed to his head. “[Not another move forward, Super Space Team! If you move a single micrometer, I’ll petrify this tiny-chomper – and then move onto the rest of his family!]”

“[No! Help me, Super Space Team! If Dr. Dark petrifies us all, the life-day celebration will be ruined!]” the tiny-chomper said, interrupted in real-time in the entertainment den by gasps of shock from the pup-pile. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr, for his part, rolled his eyes as he watched the unfolding ‘drama’ from the stairwell hall, making sure to stay silent and still lest he be noticed and dragged into the pile himself.

The actor playing the evil Dr. Dark shook the very obvious hard-light automaton of tiny-chomper soft-but-helpful. “[Not another word out of you!]”

“[Enough!]” Prince Solaris said, the male Dorarizin posing dramatically – or as dramatically as you could – in his ‘super sun suit’, beads of pure stars charging up. “[You won’t be turning him or any of the other tiny-chompers into stone today!]”

“[Or any other day!]” the absolutely garishly pink Karnakian Time Priest chimed in, her own suit turning a few painful shades of color that made Ngruzren-of-Arzgr physically flinch but drew excited cheers from his little siblings.

“[At the end of this battle, I’ll be adding you to my heat rock collection!]” the disturbingly blood-blue Jornissian Space Ranger finished, his last pose forming the final link between the other two Super Space Teammates, glyphs of power glowing on their bodie-

“{Ancestors. Kill me now.}” Ngruzren-of-Arzgr murmured as he watched his little sisters become absolutely absorbed in the ensuing scripted fight/acrobatics scene. He looked around the den with a wry grin, finally noticing his father at the opposite end of the room waving him over with a bowl of Drzulr in his hand. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr would have taken a long, slow time to sneak around the hyper-attentive siblings, but … well.

Saturday morning cartoons.

So instead, he just quickly – but still somewhat quietly – made his way around the back of the pile, every so often catching a glance of the tiny-chomper being physically tossed to safety from one Super Space Team-member to another in a bid to yadda yadda yadda.

“{Good morning, Dad.}” Ngruzren said softly, gently bumping his head against his father’s.

“{Good morning, Son. Sleep well?}”

“{Mmhmm.}” Ngruzren murmured, walking into the kitchen to see if the pot was still full. “{We out of dryspice?}”

“{No, but if the tumbler’s useless let me know. I had to throw at least half of it out because someone left the lid open and some flea-prawn got into the spice.}”

“{Nk-Grenz? If it’s not one of my moms’ it’s another-}”

Dzgranra chuckled softly as he rested against the kitchen wall, keeping an eye on his children as he sipped the slurry from the bowl. “{Mmmm. Well, with us winning that settlement bid – which, I’ll have you know I gave your mother no end of tongue-lashing over keeping that secret from me-}”

“{I know, I heard – both types.}”

Dzgranra growled a somewhat embarrassed, impressed and chiding retort at his sons’ liveliness. “{Well, it had been a few weeks, and I’m not seeing you move out young man-}”

“{I know, I know. It just didn’t work out.}”

Dzgranra hummed softly into his bowl, taking another deep dreg of the sauce-like concoction, his senses perking up the more he imbibed. “{Mmm. Well. Regardless, I’m glad to see that your studies have improved – and that your fur color is back to normal.}”

Now it was Ngruzrens’ turn to hum softly, his eyes playfully narrowing at his father. “{It just became too much of a hassle to keep up. I’m keeping the long mane, though.}”

“{Ah.}” Dzgranra acknowledged, leaning into the den to see the screen again. The tiny-chomper was riding on the back of the Karnakian hero, the entire team escaping from an exploding secret lair of some sort. “{Well, still. I know you’ve thrown yourself back into your studies – which is good – but we can’t keep putting off a fitting, son. You’re at least a year overdue-}”

“{Dad. Now?}” Ngruzren said, adding the finishing garnishes to his bowl of morning pick-me-up. “{Look. I’m mostly sitting in lectures and modeling classes, I’m not giving oral presentations, and as you can hear my words aren’t slurred-}”

“{Mm.}”

“{…well. Not badly.}”

“{Look, I’m certain if you wanted to work with your mother she could arrange an internship-}”

“{I-it’s not that, Dad.}”

Dzgranra spared a hard side-glance at his youngest, unmarried son – who looked away at the gaze. “{Well? What’s got you doing a complete turnaround then?}”

“{I… uh. I wanna work with them.}”

“{With-}”

“{withthetinychompers.}” Ngruzren murmured all at once, not so much savoring his bowl of Drzulr as just taking the entire thing down as a shot.

“{You want to work. With the tiny-chompers. Son, your mother may have some sway but you’re very young and I’m pretty sure all those slots are taken-}”

“{Well then maybe as a tour guide then?! I don’t know – why are you so quick to-}”

“{Son. You’re studying to be a geochemical engineer.}”

“{A-and?}”

“{… and you’re applying to be a tour guide. What’s this really about, really?}”

“{I just…}”

Dzgranra looked at his son, hard, as the boy murmured half-truths and full lies to the both of them. Ngruzren was doing his best to convince his father – or himself – that he just needed some time to think, to see what the new species had to offer, to broaden his horizons, and it’s not like he was dropping out – really! He just wanted to take a break and make new friends and-

‘{Oh dear.}’ Dzgranra thought to himself as he watched his son stammer through excuse after excuse. ‘{His biological clock is hitting him hard this year.}’

The internal and external monologues were broken by another deafening cheer from the entertainment room – Dzgranra poked his head in to just miss the end-of-episode terrible joke, and the Super whatever team all laughed together with about a couple dozen generic tiny-chompers all dancing around them celebrating… life day, apparently.

“{Alright! Get cleaned up – we’re going to the park today-}”

There was another cheer and the excited babbling of voices, the thumping-patter of little feet, and the sudden tight pressure around his legs as his smallest instinctively found their favorite post yet again.

“{You coming, son? I could use the – no biting – help, if you’re interested.}”

“{Nah, I’m going to meet up with Trilly and Sweeps today.}” Ngruzren said, uncouthly licking the bowl clean before dropping it into the washbasin. “{He’s already done the first level of certification clearance, and he’s helping us both pass.}”

“{Alright… If you’re sure that’s what you want.}”

“{It is, Dad.}”

“You sure that’s what you want?”

Jonathan nodded, crouched behind the hard-light brick barricade. His HUD showed Aisha on a rooftop not 300m away, gun trained just over his head. Behind him, the shambling dead – both those hit with the nanovirus, and the robots who became unwitting carriers.

“Alright. When I start firing, you start moving. Ready?”

Jon tensed.

“Go-”

The staccato rapport of Aisha’s plasma sniper rifle broke the silence of the abandoned city, alerting both the other scavvies and roidroids to their location. Jon moved with purpose, the jump-jets in his boots activating to fling him against the plastic-glass of an abandoned clinic, the additional noise a distraction to the malfunctioning robots that shambled towards his new position. Thankfully their own AI didn’t give them complete object permanence, and Aisha was far enough outside of their AoE that her bolts-

There was an alarm.

“Awwwwww” Jon complained, his dead-sprint down a hallway turning into a light jog, and that into a lazy faceplant on the mossy, wet floor. A few moments later, the entire world glowed a pure white, and he was alone.

Jon’s rented holodeck was a 10m x 10m x 10m cube; large enough for any human to do most any activity in and not hit the walls with just basic movement. Combine that with a “moving” omni-directional floor and realistic hard-light feedback, and the fat l337 G4m3r was no more; you wanted to wall-ride then you had to git gud and ride that wall. You wanted to be a super soldier? I hope you like tackling people for actual finishing moves! And you wanted to be a scavenger in the reboot of the best post-apocalyptic FPS of all time –

Well. You had to be a jack of all trades, sure, but you also had to make sure to have enough money on your card to keep your session running.

“Jon you cheap fuck, if you timed out and left me to the horde-”

“Aisha, I swear to God I didn’t time out – The uh, game booted me out-”

“Fuck you, Jon! This is an endgame scavvie run – AAAAGGGHH FUCK I’M IN A STASIS FIELD. JON YOU LIMP-DICKED-”

There was an aggrivated sigh as Jon lifted the helmet from his face, the exit door now the only thing well-illuminated enough to see. “Sorry, Aisha.”

“Yeah, so am I, fuck. Now I gotta repair my Epics.” Aisha pinged inside his ear, grumbling. “You owe me some sunshards.”

“Yeah, yeah. I could’ve sworn I put in 20 creds, though.”

“20?! Four days off in a row and you’re planning on an all-nighter?”

Jon shrugged – not that anyone else could see it – and began to walk out of the holodeck. “Yeah, yeah. You tried Zero-Bean yet? Shit’s super concentrated-”

As he opened the door the corresponding door across the hallway opened up, his battle-buddy/slacker-buddy/work-wife Aisha emerging with a slight frown on her face. “Don’t think you can bribe me with coffee, Jon. That was a fucked thing to… Huh.” Jon followed her gaze to the panel on his room; it still said he was paying, and that he had a good 9 hours left on the rental. “Huh.”

“Ah! I fucking knew it! What the hell, my chip works fine-”

“Maybe their reader fucked up? I guess I can’t be too mad at you now, seeing as how it’s a hardware failure or somethin.”

Jon pressed the ‘assistance’ button on the panel, and an obnoxious red light appeared over his door. “Yeah, well, that shit still sucks. It ate my creds and fucked up our run; we’re gonna be back in lobby for another hour to get an open slot-”

“Jon.”

Jonathan turned to look at Aisha, who had pulled up and unlocked her tablet with her implant. The frown on her face had deepened considerably over the past few seconds, and she scrolled down what seemed to be an unnecessarily long email chain rapidly. “What?”

“Well I figured out what fucked up our session – Admiral Smalls.”

“Whaaaaaaaaat? He can fucking do that?”

“Yep. We’re on duty again; Reach is coming back ahead of schedule, and…” Jon deafened himself temporarily to his teammate as he subvocalized a few commands, his implant responding to and unlocking his own personal tablet/assistant. He quickly picked up on the email thread that was growing by the second, skimming responses almost as quick as they came.

“Fuck’s sake. No teardown? Refuel, check, and load up?”

“Fuck. So that cocksucker turns around Humanity’s first colony ship in record time-”

“-and we get a month of overtime pay. Fucking great. I’m filing with the Union after this.”

“As am I, this is bullshit.”

Jon let out a soft grunt as the realization hit him. “Fuck, you and Faiza had that thing, right?”

“Had, yes. But at least she’s on call too, so-”

“Bullet: Dodged.”

“Right? Fuck this. We’re supposed to load up and be shipped out in… 6 months? 6 Months overtime-”

The two slackers grumbled much louder than they really should have as their anger fed off one another. By the time they had exited the recreation wing, they were joined by a group of other slacker ne’er do wells, who all agreed upon one fundamental fact:

Mandatory 8 hour workdays were barbaric.

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Technically Sentient Stories

“Technically” Sentient: Chapter 22

Ikor closed his eyes, ignoring the incessant stream of data being blasted at him through the integrated heads up display of his helmet. He focused on the subtle things, the tug of gravity at his stomach, the deck vibrations caused by the Outrider’s thrusters, and the tightness of his armor around his chest. It wasn’t his first time being pulled from dead asleep to full combat readiness, and it wasn’t the first time he’d volunteered for a zero-reconnaissance, zero-intelligence rescue operation. In fact, there wasn’t anyone on the Outrider that considered this a first, or even unusual. The ship and his comrades both were well seasoned veterans, and while the ship still bore the bright, coppery color of it’s penetration shielding, the weary bones told a story much longer than the fresh glint of the hull would suggest.

Outrider, a catch-all designation for the class of vessel customized by commando and honor guard units, put together ad hoc whenever special missions arose. This one started life as a communications probe. It had been subsequently gutted, refitted with an oversize engine, clad in a twin layer of copper and tungsten alloy superconductor plates, and packed with as much firepower and communications equipment as would fit after all of that. It had a harsh, angular shape, like the delta tip of a spear meant for a titan, and in many ways it was. Ikor and his fellows would be the first to set foot on the slowly spinning dead asteroid, or more specifically in the dead asteroid, as their craft burrowed through the surface of it, superheated copper trapped in a fluctuating magnetic field cutting through the nickel-iron alloy like a hot knife through butter. The briefing had been, well, brief. Get on the ship, enter the asteroid, find the source of the transmission, wait for further orders. Simple. In theory.

The Outrider shook him in his harness, and his eyes snapped open. He scanned the readouts, checking everything from his squad-mates vital signs to the crude radar array built into the outrider. There was a dull impact as the vessel shook again, the maneuvering thrusters firing sporadically to guide them through an unseen debris field. His eyes narrowed, something this obvious should have been easy to avoid. He didn’t like it, but he knew it wouldn’t threaten the mission success chance. Anything big enough to damage the ship they could dodge, and anything too small to see coming they could shrug off, but it was a bad omen. This should have been easy to detect. This shouldn’t have been an issue to begin with. There was another impact, and the communication channel back to command went dead as an external communications relay was obliterated by a chunk of iron the size of a baseball traveling at 4000 meters per second. The backup relay kicked in moments later, operating flawlessly, and he let out an internal sigh of relief.


He scanned the motionless, midnight black helmets of his squad mates, who were all likely thinking something similar to him. There were only six of them in the pod, but with how heavily armed and armored they were . . . that wouldn’t be a problem. Their armor was self contained, bio-integrative, pressurized, had reactive elements and with powered muscle assist spindles running through it provided freedom and ease of movement even in high gravity terrestrial conditions. Each of them had auto-correcting equilibrium implants for fighting in zero-g or fluctuating gravity, joint replacements for controlling weapon recoil, nanotube bone reinforcement, and a hormone control node implanted on the right side of each of their hind-brains. Without putting too fine a point on it, they were about as much hardware as they were “natural,” and all of the hardware was aimed at making them more efficient, effective, and durable soldiers.

He set his jaw as he remembered the thing he’d watched throw around his people like rag dolls. It had been head and shoulders taller than them, and took hits like they were using foam training weapons for pre-modification recruits. Fear was something that had become a part of his life as a commando. There was fear of explosive decompression, fear of being gunned down by hypervelocity armor-piercing flechette, fear of just being in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . but he had never felt that primal kind of fear where something that was prey looked at something that was a predator. All of his weapons, all his armor, all that training and technology just didn’t matter in the face of that bellowing mountain of muscle and rage. They just kept hitting it and hitting it, but nothing seemed to stop it, or even slow it down. He’d never voice it, but when the Captain of the Honor Guard had saddled up on scene, and dusted the thing handily, he didn’t feel pride in his commander, or even awe for his martial skill, he just felt relief. It didn’t feel like a victory against that thing, just survival.

The command channel in his helmet chimed to life. “30 seconds to surface impact. Brace, and prepare to disembark.”

The calm, clear orders of General Vrang pushed such thoughts aside. He was being sentimental, getting distracted. He needed to focus, just on the mission, and nothing else. The asteroid seemed to be largely porous, with preliminary scans indicating a series of ordered chambers running through it roughly 200 meters beneath the surface. They should make entry very near the source of the signal, but those measurements were bound to have drift caused by what appeared to be a substantial layer of conductive metallic elements. Using their armor mounted microthrusters and mag-boots, they’d maneuver to the source of the distress beacon, mapping tunnels as they went, and then establish a more powerful long range communications array that could penetrate the damping effects of the conductive layer.

There was a dull crackle and a surge of heat as the liquid copper shell engaged, boring through dozens of meters of solid rock in seconds. Ironically, there was less turbulence digging through the asteroid than approaching it, Ikor mused silently. He quietly checked over his weapon. A sleek hybrid of several different weapon systems, he’d had it primed and ready since the hangar incident . . . as a sort of safety blanket. There was a standard Kinetic Pulse rifle nested down the length of the gun, perfect for use on standard soft targets, but around it was built a three prong, overdriven Microwave Beam Emitter. While the Kinetic Pulse weapon would pulverize flesh and shatter bone at considerable distance and at prodigious rates of fire, the Microwave Beam Emitter would flash-boil, ignite, or just outright incinerate anything that got within its range. Under that, he’d mounted a smooth bore AP-Flechette cannon, for when not even fire would kill it. There was enough firepower in his hands to bring down the Outrider, and he was almost certain it would be enough to stop a human dead in its tracks.

He really didn’t want to have to test that theory though.

The faint rumbling came to a stop, but the static interference from the asteroid made communications from General Vrang impossible now. Ikor switched to short range communications, no point in wasting energy cell life on the long range transmitter if it couldn’t get through. “You all know what to do, keep chatter to a minimum.” He received 5 affirmative crackles. A single click of the transmitter to let him know he had been heard. The seconds drug on in silence as the hull cooled, creaking and popping as it did so. Finally, their restraint harnesses automatically disengaged, and they were free to float about the cabin, though there was barely enough room for all six of them in it. The rear hatch slid open quietly, and while he had expected there to be a gust of air as the ship depressurized, he was surprised no such event occurred. Internally his brow furrowed, and he intuitively fired the thrusters on his boots, propelling him out and into the still faintly glowing tunnel they’d carved on their way in. His weapon was at his shoulder, and as he drifted away from the Outrider, he saw a multitude of half breached or completely bisected tunnels in their ships wake. “Kal, Vers, with me.” Two crackles of response met his order, and without bothering to check if they were behind him, he drifted up to the first opening.

He’d had a few guesses as to what they’d find, of course. He’d been expecting the polished alloy of a military installation, or the rough rock of a mining operation, or the long abandoned and shoddily constructed scrap-station used by illegal salvager’s and pirates . . . but he never would have guessed this. He gently drifted forward into the smooth, almost polished stone of the corridor. The lamps mounted on either side of his helmet cast bright light across the dark, but somehow glossy surface of the rock. The twin pools of light swept side to side as he scanned the strangely organic curves of buttressing and cross bridging, the almost rib like constructions arching the span of the tunnel. He flicked the safety on his weapon off, before guiding himself down to the flatter, more open portion of the tunnel and engaged his magnetic boots with a dull thump.

Ikor’s eyes flickered across his HUD one more time, checking to see what his suits sensors were making of the place. Gamma radiation? Nominal. EM transmissions? Virtually absent. Atmospheric pressure? Roughly three quarters standard.

“Specialist Vers, get me an atmospheric reading.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see her take a knee, and activate her forearm mounted diagnostic suite.

“Trace thorium, silica dust, oxygen, point-seven-seven atmospheres, and a large amount of water. I’m getting . . . unidentified carbon compounds, likely biologically complex macromolecules.” Her tone was firm, authoritative, but ended in a subtle uptick that was the hallmark of curiosity.

“Breathable?” Ikor crackled with a single raised eyebrow.

“In a pinch, affirmative. I wouldn’t until I can identify what the biological compound is though.” She shrugged. The gesture was barely noticeable considering how much gear she had on, but Ikor picked up on it.

He took a few tentative steps forward, scanning the long and subtly curving corridor with broad sweeps of his rifle. “Well, get me a line on that emergency beacon, and figure it out as we move.”

He took a few more careful steps forward before suddenly stumbling, barely able to catch himself as he felt his entire body suddenly get heavier.

“Sergeant?” Both of his squad mates moved forward sharply to cover him before he could wave them off.

“It’s nothing, just an artificial gravity field . . . must be malfunctioning, otherwise we’d have hit it on the way in.” He disengaged his magnetic boots, and took another few steps forward. “Strong too, we must be close to the source.”

The two affirmative clicks weren’t quite enough to put him at ease, but the navigational marker on his HUD was. 200 meters ahead, more or less. “Hopefully in this tunnel.” It was difficult to judge because of the unusual curve, but . . . if they were lucky. “Sitrep on the Outrider?” There was a pause. Perfectly normal, as they were likely making a visual inspection to ensure the integrity of the craft, but something about the place put Ikor on edge. He wondered if he still had the jitters from the hangar, but the thought was interrupted by a static crackle. “Outrider appears fully operational, tunnel integrity is sound. Status is green across the board.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Good, that was good . . .

“100 meters front, do you have eyes on the source?” The communications link to Vers crackled, like there was some signal distortion, considering she was a half step behind him that shouldn’t have been-

Ikor glanced over his shoulder, and did a double take. Vers was gone. He spun on his heel, and Corporal Kal, his second in command, was clearly searching for her as well. “Vers, what is your location, I repeat, what is your location?” He quickly pinged his Friend-or-Foe system, stomach dropping like a stone as only 4 responses came up.

“I’m . . . “ The static was worse, much worse now. Kal pulled a monofiber cable off his belt and looped it through a carabiner on Ikor’s belt, slapping his commander on the shoulder to physically affirm he was still there. “I’m getting movement on my scope, how the hell did- CONTACT FRONT!” The high pitched report of Kinetic Pulse weapons fire echoed down the long corridor, and both Ikor and Kal took off at a dead sprint towards it. Their boots thudded against the dark gray, glassy floor, a faint mist slowly rising higher and thicker as they ran closer to the source of the sound and hopefully Vers. Kal spooled out a little slack, one hand on the security line, the other on his rifle as he tried to keep pace with Ikor, the years of training and drilling and instinctive combat response keeping them moving with a purpose, even in this bewildering scenario. “KP IS INEFFECTIVE, SWITCHING TO FLECHETTE!” The loud booming of the under-slung smooth-bore seemed close, but they still couldn’t see anyone. The panic and desperation in her voice was clear. “IT’S IN THE MIST! STAY OUT OF THE-” There was a crunching sound that turned Ikor’s stomach. He didn’t stop to imagine what caused it before flicking his Microwave Beam Emitter to maximum charge, and waving it around like a torch in the darkness. The faint mist turned to clear steam, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of something.

It was just a glimpse, just a hint, it was almost the same color as the mists, almost the same texture as the stone . . . but different. Wrong. Impossible.

But there wasn’t time to think about it. There wasn’t time to stop and wonder if what he saw was even real. He didn’t break stride, and neither did Kal. They had to get to Vers. Burning a way through the mists that aggressively coalesced behind them, they kept advancing. Vers Friend-or-Foe tag was visible on his HUD, but her vitals were flatlined.

That’s when he heard it. Coughing, faint, but there. The mists had begun to thin from the opaque wall of white to just traces of vapor coiling about their boots, and there was Vers, helmet in one hand, standing with her back to both Kal and Ikor.

“Vers, come in!” Ikor barked into their shared com channel, but received only silence. Switching to an external speaker, he barked out again. “Vers, answer me, I need a sitrep!”

She didn’t move, but her head tilted back just a few degrees. “I’m . . . I’m all right, Ikor.” She sounded . . . tired. “It’s alright. I think . . . I think it’s over.”

Kal was frantically sweeping his sectors, weapon at the ready. “With all due respect specialist, what the fuck?” Kal’s external speaker coughed into the dim mist as Ikor’s helmet lights swept over Ver’s armor. Scratched, battered, but otherwise intact, she didn’t appear to be wounded at first glance. Ikor kept his sights trained on her. “Vers . . . gimmie a sitrep, Vers.”

Vers, to her credit, took a few steps away, before leaning against the smooth wall of the tunnel. With a heavy sigh, she slid down to a seated position. Blood was flowing freely from her nose and ears, even one of her eyes was leaking a stream of bright red vitae from the corner. “This is gonna sound fucked up guys . . . but . . . uhh . . .” She scratched her head with her free hand, setting her clearly shattered helmet on her knee. That must have been the crunching sound he’d heard, Ikor mused silently.

His suppositions were interrupted as, with abject horror, Ikor watched something slither inside her suit. It was thin, long, but powerful, and his stomach turned as he could see the body-tight under layer of her combat suit bulge and ripple as it worked its way up her leg, across her abdomen, and around to her back. “ . . . Vers what the fuck was that?”

His tone was a half whisper, and his hands were shaking slightly as he trained his sights on her forehead, priming a flechette round in the under barrel smooth-bore.

“I get it, no like . . . really I get it. But we’re wrong. Every . . . everything we’ve been taught, everything we’ve fought for is a lie.” Her head dropped, and she shivered as something flashed across the side of her neck. “I don’t even know where to start, actually.”

She stood again, an expression of mixed consternation and frustration on her face. “No matter what I tell you . . . you’re probably just going to blow my head off. Because that’s exactly what makes sense to do. That’s exactly what I would do. I guess . . . I’m not even gonna say don’t fight it. Because . . . well, that’s what you’d expect me to say right now.”

Every fiber of his being was screaming at Ikor that this wasn’t Vers, this was something . . . something different. But the mannerisms were the same, the body language, the posture . . . some part of whatever was in front of him still was. “I guess I’d say it doesn’t . . . it doesn’t hurt? I mean you feel kinda dumb afterward, but it doesn’t hurt.”

An alarm sounded as something breached the boot of his suit, and he snapped his rifle down, firing at the space between his feet. He was rewarded with a spatter of gray gore, and a high pitched squealing sound, but he could already feel it . . . writhing inside him. His leg went numb, and it buckled as he lost all control of it. It didn’t hurt. That much was true. He could feel pressure though. Inside his muscles, across his bones as it swam through his flesh. He thought it would be a struggle, perhaps with some terrifying mental presence as his body was stripped from him. But it wasn’t. It was more like remembering something from a long time ago. Like where he left a set of keys, or an old song. He could feel its thin tendrils as they penetrated his skull, merging with his nervous system seamlessly. He expected something about it to terrify him, or at least hurt, but there was nothing of the sort. It was just . . . an awkward realization. The Coryphaeus, the Core Worlds . . . all of it was founded on pretty obvious lies, now that he could see the truth. It made sense, even. Even with that, he was still himself. All his memories, his aspirations, the pride he took in his career and his squad mates . . . even his penchant for capsaicin seasoned foods. Just, that, and bigger picture, the real plan. The way forward. It was . . . kind of staggering in scale, really. The whole galaxy, maybe even more. It was a lot to take in, or at least it would be if it didn’t feel like he’d always known it.

“You . . . were right, Vers. I do feel a little dumb.” He looked over to see Kal struggling to yank the gray tendril out of the neck seal of his suit, but after a moment of struggling, he too stopped.

Vers chuckled, the kind of good humored laugh one has when they’ve been made the butt of a practical but harmless joke. “Yeah . . . kinda glad that we got it figured out though, you know? Even if it was against our will. Glad you didn’t pop my head off . . . was actually really worried that was gonna happen.”

Ikor felt a moment of embarrassment. He was really ready to kill Vers out of fear. Fear of something he just didn’t understand, and out of dedication to a cause that would sacrifice him without a second thought. “Yeah . . . I do feel guilty about that.” He pushed himself to his feet, walking over to help Kel up as well. The creature from the hangar, the human, as he now understood, was never their enemy. He was just another piece on the board. He smiled to himself. It was freeing, to realize that the human he had been so frightened of was really on their side all along.

“Well, I’m glad you at least feel guilty about it.” She gave him a halfhearted, if a bit awkward smirk. All seemed so foolish now. “So, Sergeant, how are we going to pass on the uhh . . . “ Vers waved her hand around, thin gray tendrils erupting from her fingertips.

Ikor rolled his shoulders, and he felt it settle somewhere in the small of his back. “We’ll finish setting up the long range communication beacon, tell command the truth about it being a decoy, and then head back to the Outrider. We’ll pass it on once the harnesses have locked them in place.” Vers and Kal both nodded. “Well, let’s get to it then. Transcendence doesn’t happen on it’s own, you know?” That got a laugh from both Vers and Kal, as they all set off down the familiar tunnel once again.

Categories
They are Smol Uncategorized Stories

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 2

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr was unceremoniously woken up yet again by that damnable alarm clock. He had a love-hate relationship with it; On one hand, it made sure he was never late for school or work. On the other hand, he hated constantly waking up on the floor.

But maybe that’s where he belonged.

He got up, tossing his blanket carelessly to the side, stretching and rolling his shoulders and hips to work out the kinks from sleeping so haphazardly. Plastered aggressively on his moss-green walls were posters of various rage bands – the “killers”, “pirates” and other various bad-girl personas growling and leering at him from looping digital portraits. Growling a few lurid lyrics to himself he walked into his bathroom, flicking on the harsh light – now bathing him in an almost neon blue as opposed to the faux-daylight of just a few months ago. He checked himself in the mirror with a critical eye for a few moments and then frowned.

Although having such a large natural and unkempt mane was his style now, that didn’t mean it was easy to keep. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr opened one of the drawers underneath the countertop and pulled out an aerosol can and it’s corresponding brush; connecting the two at the handle he began to spray a deep and vivid vantablack into his fluffy coat, his neck and upper shoulders rapidly going from a slightly-dull black to the void between stars. Disconnecting the dye brush he set it back with it’s brothers and sisters, idly hovering his hand over a few more outrageous colors before deciding against recoloring his accent marks.

Black, deep black, was it’s own statement.

Ngruzren leaned forward and stared intently into the mirrorscreen, it’s AI recognizing body posture and intent and expanding his view to focus on his eyes. Unnaturally bright, blood blue eyes stared back at him, and with a command from his implant they were scanned. The nanites currently clouding his irises and causing the pigment change were statistically counted; he shouldn’t start losing color due to nanite death for another week or so.

He let himself smile before turning it coy, tilting his head with a come-hither bad-boy look. With another shrug of his shoulders, it turned from come-hither to utterly unimpressed.

Perfect.

He stayed like that for a few moments before letting a few full-body wiggles roll through his body. He looked damn good, and he wasn’t going through this much trouble because it was some stupid phase, no matter what his father said. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr let those good feelings roll over him for a few more moments before that trademark early-morning frown graced his features again.

There was still a gap in his jaw.

Grumbling – snarling, really – he opened the cursed drawer, pulling out that damned box once again. He had thought about possibly throwing it away, or going without, but – but what good is looking this good if you open your mouth and lisp so hard nobody can understand you? That is guaranteed social suicide. With a click of a latch the heavily-scarred lid popped open, his prosthetic gleaming up at him, fresh and perfect from a sonic scrubbing. He picked up the device and slapped the damned thing onto his lower jaw, closing and clenching his teeth to get the micro-servos to activate. With a firm pinch of his gums the device turned on, for a lack of a better word, and he closed the box, haphazardly tossing it back into it’s drawer.

“{Ba. Ra. Fa. Sa. Ka.}” He growled, wandering through his room to pick up a discarded book here, some clothing accessory there, assembling his outfit for the day using the age-old and universal standard of “what clothing in front of me doesn’t stink and isn’t too crumpled from laying on the floor?”. “{Da. Br. Dr. Kr. Lrsh.}” Ngruzren paused for a moment and rolled his tongue against the seal of his prosthetic, testing it slightly. “{Lr. LR. LLLRRRRR.}” Hopefully it was just the damn thing warming up – if he had grown his jaw a bit over the past year, that would mean he would have to go in for another fitting, another round of some doctor telling him no, and another round of his dad being right.

Ngruzren frowned, hard, at that thought.

‘The issue’, Dzgranra-of-Arzgr thought, as he fried another handful of mixed sausages while giving his youngest son the side-eye, ‘Is that his mother isn’t home enough’. Dzgranra-of-Arzgr said nothing, however, as his youngest son gently swatted away some of the smaller leapies who were hoping to latch onto him, doing his best to protect an outfit that looked… well worn, if you wanted to be generous.

“{Good Morning, son.}”

“{Mm.}”

“{Did… you sleep well?}”

“{I’m going out for breakfast.}”

Dzgranra sighed.

“{Do you want Rzkrenz to drive you? You can pick-}”

“{I’ll walk.}” Ngruzren-of-Arzgr growled, walking without a care through the busy kitchen on his way out.

“{Are you sure? It’s not a big deal to-}”

“{BY OUR ANCESTORS, DAD, YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE SO OVERBEARING-}”

Dzgranra-of-Arzgr frowned, tossing the next batch of sausages into the pan with a little more force than necessary. “{Don’t you raise your voice at me! I’m-}”

“{UGH. I’m LEAVING.}”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr barreled out of the house, and if the doors weren’t automatic Dzgranra was certain he would have slammed them on his way out.

“{Definitely because his mother isn’t home.}”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr walked to the transport hub, grumbling to himself the entire way. He pointedly ignored the people around him; some half-smiled, looking at a nice young buck on the street. Others paid him no mind, and a few glanced at him and rolled their eyes with the knowledge that only comes with age.

‘It’s not fair’, he thought, as he stopped at an intersection and waited for the go-ahead, pulling his forearm-wraps just a little tighter. ‘Mom fucking hates me.’

He was wrong, of course, but there was no way for Ngruzren-of-Arzgr to know that: His mother, Kzdzgrar-of-Rzndzre, had started taking longer hours at work, and what was an assured “3 month project, tops” had now spanned to just over a 15 month year. Combine that with the sudden cessation of private building permits, the revocation of resettlement rights, the auditors and inspectors in everyone’s business and the condemnation of the only major public park within walking distance of literally the entire city and the only conclusion Ngruzren could come up with is that (1) his mother and the entire administration had gone mad with power and (2) she obviously hated him, because all this shit fell on his head.

“[Well hey there, rotten liver.]”

Ngruzren turned to the insult and smiled. “{Hey there yourself, molted chick.}”

Ik’itili made a point to fluff herself out, her mottled copper-and-white body feathers spreading dully in the morning sun. “[I’ll have you know that I’m not going bald-]”

“{You just look like that, right?}”

“[Ooo, Jealousy. I like it. You know I’ll model for you if you want to use me as your new avatar for the GalNet Node.]”

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments before bursting out in laughter, Ngruzren cracking first. The two friends giggled for a little while as the indicator changed, and they crossed the street with the amassed crowd.

“[So, going for the full night-rage aesthetic?]”

“{It works.}” Ngruzren said, shrugging slightly. “{It’s just how I am now, yanno? It speaks to me.}”

Ik’itili stayed silent for a few seconds too long, and Ngruzren turned his head to look at the Karnakian. “{What.}”

“[I mean. Are you sure you’re not just going for the big-maned night-rage boyfriend look?]”

Ngruzren blushed, furiously, and swiped playfully-not-playfully at his friend who artfully bobbed out of the way before moving back close. “{You whore! I-I am not! This is not a phase!}” He growled, baring his teeth before his expression quickly turned startled, snapping his jaw shut-

He rolled his mouth in silence as Ik’itili peeped softly, making a point to look away as her friend readjusted his obviously loose prosthetic. They walked in a semi-awkward silence together for the next few city blocks, the multi-story public transit hub towering over them as they closed the distance.

“{I-I just like it, ok?}”

“[Ok.]”

“{It’s not a phase. Everyone’s telling me it’s a phase and I just… I just like it.}”

“[Ok. That’s not a bad thing, I’m just saying, yanno. You’re very much filling that stereotype – not that that’s a bad thing! – and I just figure, yanno. You’ve got someone in mind.]”

Ngruzren stayed silent for a few seconds too long, and Ik’itili turned her head to look at the Dorarizin. “{What. Since when?}”

Ngruzren blushed furiously for an entirely different set of reasons as they ascended the stairs to the transport pods, his friend needling him incessantly the entire way.

“[All I’m saying is, is that our son isn’t the same anymore, and I’m tired of dealing with this myself!]”

Rpressesha sighed, which honestly didn’t sound too much different than any other noise the Jornissian made nowadays save for the utter exhaustion evident in the exhalation. “<Look, [Dzgranra], I understand things have been hard->”

“[Hard? No. Hard was having 9 pups under the age of 3 and three wives who worked overtime. That was hard. This is concerning. He’s not taking care of himself, he’s not getting good grades anymore, he won’t tell me who he’s hanging out with – if his friends weren’t helping me keep tabs… and the lyrics to the music he listens to are just-]”

“<[Dzgranra]. I get it, I really do. I’m pulling the same hours she is, I haven’t seen my family or my clutch in literally two weeks.>” The city treasurer said, pulling the smart lens-cup from his eye – the overlay disappearing as he rested his head in his hands. Had it really been two weeks? Was it… three? No. Surely not –

There were a few moments of silence, and for a brief second Rpressesha hoped he could end the call and get back to this Senate report and verifying the City’s financials from twelve hundred years ago-

“[Is it worth it?]”

The simplicity of the question caught Rpressesha off-guard, and he responded with a simple “<What?>”

“[This. Whatever you’re all doing. Is it worth it? There’s no way any of you survive the next election cycle – The mayor’s absolutely out, and you’re all probably going with her, especially with what’s come down the mountain.]”

Rpressesha stared into the middle distance, suddenly feeling every single ache in his long body, every single gentle weight of the bast 490 years of life on his shoulders. The calls from his wife had slowed down as of late, from a daily checkin to a couple times a week to a week-end catchup. If he was here two weeks, he still had four days to prepare for a hatchday celebration for his most recent clutch, but if it was three weeks then…

Is it worth it?

Rpressesha frowned as he closed his eyes, his coworker’s husbands’ concerns simply falling to white noise. He was exhausted to the bone, his lower third had gone numb from lack of movement, he had most likely missed his youngest clutchs’ hatchday celebration – not to mention his older clutch coming home for that reunion – and his parents –

Rpressesha’s face fell as an unbidden realization hit him. Parents, damn them to the frozen hells – what about his in-laws?! He would never hear the end of this-

“<I don’t know.>”

“[What?]”

“<I don’t know. I don’t know if this is worth it, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, I don’t know if this will all make sense, I don’t know what I can tell you. We’re all doing our absolute best here. I don’t know if this is going to … be worth it.>”

“[Then why are you doing it?]”

Rpressesha would have shrugged if he had the energy. “<Glory. Fame. Industry, a better future, a place in history, I don’t know. Take your pick.>”

“[…what?]”

“<Look, [Dzgranra], I don’t know what you want me to say. I already told you when you first called months ago that I’m contractually obligated to secrecy. The only thing I can really say is->”

Dzgranra did not so much open Rpressesha’s office door as she did rip it from it’s track on the floor, a loud WHAM interrupting the exhausted Jornissian and spoking his blood with a potent shot of adrenaline. His eyes fixed on his colleague, her manic look, her wide, goofy grin, her tail going a thousand miles a minute leaving an indention on the floor-

“<IT’S WORTH IT.>”

Just because it was the night shift doesn’t mean you couldn’t slack off.

Hell, because it was the night shift you were almost contractually obligated to slack off, and Break Room 115-C on Deck 48 of the First (and only) human shipyard construct Starforge held two of the most notorious and well-seasoned slackers of the entire 15,000 man contingent on the station. Mars hung outside the windows, angry and dull-red, a few specks of glittering light on the surface the only indicator of life and industry. You could make the argument, then, that the two people inside the break room were the perfect juxtaposition: They did as little as humanly possible to keep their jobs, and had no life.

“So, settling in Silver City. Say that five times fast.” Jonathan laughed, tossing the mini-basketball high into the low-gravity station air, letting it float a few seconds down to his lap before smacking it with both his hands in a clap-grab. “Why there? And what even is the planet name? A city but no planet? Is the planet named Silver City?”

Aisha did not turn to address her colleague and shrugged as she poured herself yet another cup of Turkish coffee, the familiar ritual brining a soft smile to her face. “Mmm. From the part of the briefing you were asleep for, it’s because it’s relatively close enough to Sol, one of the first few jumps from Contact – so the lanes are well mapped out – and the atmo is basically Earth-like. Gravity’s a bit heavier, but it’s fine, and apparently they’re giving us the nature preserve in the middle of the city.”

“So low overhead for a colony, close enough to pack up and go home, and if we’re fucked they have to get through the rest of the city before they get to us. Nice.”

“Jon, you’re an ass sometimes.”

Jon grinned and gave a noncommittal shrug, tossing the foam ball from hand to hand. “Maybe, from time to time. I am an ass man, after all.”

“I’m reporting that as sexual harassment.”

“No you’re not. Cause if you doooo, then I’ll tell the dockmaster about how – what’s her name? Faiza? Somehow keeps finding her way into your bunk.”

Aisha smirked as she let the coffee settle. “Ass.”

“We literally just talked about this-”

“So when do you fuck off and leave me your stuff?”

“You mean when do I, the intrepid and brave explorer, the sole brilliant mechanic capable of keeping Reach running, bravely and studily go where no man’s gone before?”

“No I mean when do you, the guy with no attachments, one of 700 grays go scrub some other floor than my own?”

Jonathan held his hand over his heart, sniffling. “Aisha, you wound me.”

“So?” She replied, turning to face her colleague in the still-empty breakroom. “Suck it up, jumper-bumper.”

Jonathan stuck his tongue out and leaned back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table as he sunk a little deeper into the plush seating. “Well. Probably a few months from now, I’d say – if not another year. Reach might be air-tight, but we don’t know if she’s space-worthy, yanno? And considering it’s all our own tech for once-”

“Build, test, complete teardown, and rebuild?”

“Probably.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be a lot of work, but I think-”

“No, I mean, your stash is either going to go bad or you’ll run through it before you fucking leave.”

The small foam basketball bounced harmlessly off of Aisha’s forehead as she enjoyed her coffee.

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – and it’s a Smol World: Chapter 1

WE ARE BACK TO SHITPOSTING AND LIGHT-HEARTED HIGH ADVENTURE, Y’ALL!

The alarm clock – or what we would call an alarm clock – went off at 6AM, it’s gentle waterfall and rustling wind tone getting louder and louder as time marched inexorably forward.

The blanket den did not stir.

The alarm clock – what we might still call an alarm clock – began to vibrate somewhat insistently, the nightstand that it was placed on rattling irritatingly.

The blanket den did not stir.

The alarm clock – what we might generously call an alarm clock, but what is rapidly becoming more of a nuisance to snooze-button hitters everywhere – began to turn on the lights in the boy’s room. Deep, moss-green walls were illuminated slowly, the lights embedded in the ceiling and intersections of walls going from a warm, soft glow to a bright, brilliant daylight. The room was somewhat tidy – or as tidy as could be expected from the youngest son, with only a few articles of clothing and college schoolwork littered about the floor. A faux window began to “open”, the viewscreen sliding the wall away to show the vista-of-the-day. Today it was from the POV of a drone on some pristine cliffs somewhere, their height and depth seeming to split the planetoid in two.

The blanket den mumbled some muffled protest, and huffed.

The alarm clock – what we will now firmly call an evil invention and a trespass of the Geneva convention – slowly lifted the bowl like den-bed, inexorably tilting it to rest at 120 degrees. As it did so, Ngruzren-of-Arzgr unceremoniously tumbled out of his bed in steps; first his legs, then his hips and torso, then finally everything but his head, which went by the rules of “if I’m still in the bed then it counts.”

However, at this point he was most unfortunately awake.

Grumbling, he stood up – still blanketed, of course, its’ heavy weight comforting him as he shuffled to the alarm clock, resting his unkempt paw ontop of the cruel device. After a few seconds the cacophony of annoyances stopped with a happy beep; the bed retracted into the floor and was covered, sitting flush with the rest of the ground. Ngruzren tossed his blankets into the recessed bin, smiling sleepily as he heard them thunk into the scrubber. Eyes squinted, ears back, he trudged into his own, personal bathroom – one of the few benefits of being a male, after all – and began his daily grooming ritual, slowly coming to consciousness as the brush bar worked out stray knots, errant dead hair and flaky skin cells.

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr cracked open his Navy Blue eyes, pupils shrinking as they were invaded by the sharp bathroom light. He sighed as he looked himself over; Dusty-blue fur, gray underbelly, deep blue eyes, boring boring boring. He winced as the brushbar traveled over his back, snagging on a couple unkempt knots of fur – usually he just lightly brushed over the spots that his clothing covered, but, for some reason today he felt he should just be a little more thorough. After the second snagged pass-through of the brush, he thought better of it, gave it a lazy once-over smoothdown with the flat back of the brush bar, and set to work on his teeth.

Ahh, yes. His teeth. Ngruzren-of-Arzgr grumbled as he opened his mouth, finding the few errant teeth that had grown loose overnight, and pushing them back into his gums. With that same delicate-but-firm touch, he ran his padded finger hopefully over a single large gap in his jaw; no toothbuds today. With an irritated flick of his ear he pulled open a drawer and brought out the box.

He hated the box, or more specifically, what was inside it. With a click of a latch the lid popped open, his prosthetic gleaming up at him, fresh and perfect from a sonic scrubbing. He picked up the device and ran his finger lightly underneath it, where it would sit on the gums; the teeth above rippled just slightly – just enough so that nobody looking would know that he suffered from Gaptooth… they would write off his slight lisp as just being natural. He opened his jaw wide and glared angrily into the mirror as he set the damned contraption onto his lower jaw, wiggling it back and forth to get the micro-servos to activate. With a firm pinch of his gums the device turned on, for a lack of a better word, and he ran his tongue on the inside of his jaw to test the seal.

“{Ba. Ra. Fa. Sa. Ka. Da. Br. Dr. Kr. Lr.}” He intoned, the device moving just a microsecond too late with every syllable. He stared at himself as he closed the lid on the box. “{Fihve more yearsh. Ugh.}” He rolled his toothline, gnashing the prosthetic in his jaws. “{Five more years. Five more years and then you’re going to throw this shade-damned bracer into the sun.}”

Dzgranra-of-Arzgr was an accomplished homemaker. He had married young – well, relatively young, given his people lived at or just past a thousand years old – and had somewhere along the lines of 3 dozen pups between his three wives. His first few were the most hectic; no book, holo-seminar, retreat or clan denmeet can actually prepare you for having a screaming, howling little ball of terror that can disappear into the vents and behind furniture and under vehicles and doesn’t mind chewing on the insulation or hunting and devouring your collection of shoes.

After his eighth – which also happened to be his second son – he finally fell into a rhythm. Burrowers in bed by 6, Leapers by 8, family time with the Mrs’s from 10 onwards.

This was, of course, how he ended up with more and more pups. After his 23rd, he said “fuck it, they’ll live” and started running on autopilot as long as nothing was actively on fire, making a very concerning sound, or was an indicator of massive structural damage to the home. When news of this transformation in parenting hit his Father, Uncles, Grandfathers and Granduncles they nodded to each other sagely, and counted him as one of their own.

Dzgranra-of-Arzgr was busily flipping pitchercakes in the trough of boiling oil with his left hand, his right errantly mincing a few of the finished breakfast treats into a steaming pile of mush for his smallest children. With his left leg he scooted an errant ball away from the still-warm stove, his right leg having fallen victim to two of his youngest daughters who had latched onto it once they woke up and refused to let go, 30 minutes later. Suddenly there was a loud bang somewhere from the play-room, and a sharp howl of pain.

No pause beforehand. No warble of the throat. More surprise than actual injury – “{Grenzg, get your daughters please-}” Dzgranra called out from the kitchen, a few more of his older daughters (who really should know better) errantly stampeding into the dining-den by way of the most inefficient and most obstructive route – as children are often want to do.

“{Why are they my daughters when there’s an issue?}” Grenzgranr-of-Drezr said, smirking as she stood triumphantly in one of the doorways, a few pups under each arm. “{And how did you even know that they were my daughters anyway?}”

“{Because they take after their mother-}”

“{Hah!}”

“{Now sit them down, I almost have the second batch done. It’s your day to walk my leapies to school-}”

“{I know, I know-}” Grenzgranr-of-Drezr said, rolling her shoulders as her daughters considered a prison break. “{Shall I gather everyone else up?}”

“{Mmm.}” Dzgranra said noncommittally. “{Has Rzkrenz gotten the boy?}”

“{No, I think she’s loading the shuttle.}”

“{Well, you know how kids are at their last molting – if he sleeps in again-}”

There was a sharp cry from a few of the younger children – this one of joy, and some tired, resigned murmurs reverberating from the stairwell. As if on cue, Ngruzren-of-Arzgr slowly tromped into the kitchen, a few of his very small (and not so small) sisters latched onto his legs, arms, or scrambling onto his back – not caring in the world that their sharp claws were all but shredding his clothing.

“{I got myself, Dad.}” Ngruzren-of-Arzgr said in a slightly exasperated voice as his little sisters cackled and howled with the glee and excitement that only those who have no responsibilities can enjoy. “{Need help?}”

“{Awww, come here my baby boy~}” Dzgranra cooed, momentarily leaving the stove to half-hug his last, and youngest son, making sure to keep his food-flecked paws away from his body. “{You look fantastic today!}”

Ngruzren stared flatly at his father, who beamed nothing but support and pride back at him. One of his little sisters took this opportunity to full-mouth bite his side, which caused him to grunt – breaking the moment.

“{Oi, no biting – Nk-Grenz?}”

“{Why is it always MY daughters?}” Grenzgranr-of-Drezr growled, plucking a few of the offenders off of her pack-son and tucking the squirming, protesting beasts under her arm. “{It’s not like you were perfect at that age either!}”

“{All my sons were absolutely perfect at every age, because they take after their father.}”

Grenzgranr-of-Drezr inhaled sharply as if to rebut the statement, but at the last moment thought better of it. Spinning on her heels, she hauled the 5 or 6 little tyrants into the dining-den. “{Well, what about Zni-Kzdzgrar?}”

“{Government business. Again.}” Dzgranra said in that dad-isn’t-yelling-but-wants-to-be-heard voice, Ngruzren silently standing next to him by the stove to help with breakfast preparations. Forming an assembly line, they got to work: as each still-steaming pitchercake came out of the hot oil, father handed it over to son, who dipped it in a bowl of an edible, congealing fat-wax blend, then placing them on a cooling rack to dry.

“{Mom’s working too hard.}” Ngruzren stated, matter-of-factly. “{It’s been three weeks of leaving before the pups wake and coming home after they’re put to bed.}”

“{I know, my little sweetmeat.}” Dzgranra sighed, dipping his paw into a bowl of mince and forming another cake before dropping it into the oil trough. “{She won’t even tell me what’s going on, but whatever it is it’s important. I just have to tell myself that.}”

“{Do you think so though?}”

Dzgranra hummed a bit to himself, then looked at his son with a …somewhat disturbing twinkle in his eye. “{Well. I don’t smell another man on her, and with how she wakes me up around midnight for-}”

“{AAAAAAAAAA THANK YOU DAD.}”

Dzgranra chuckled, tossing a few more of the fried breakfast lumps to his son. “{You say that now, but you’re almost through your last child-molt. I know you’ve already gone through your first couple of seasons-}”

“{DAD. NOW?}”

“{Mmm, captive audience. Look, all I’m saying is, just keep your eyes open and your nose to the ground, ok? Girls are already noticing you, and you need to be aware-}”

“{DAD.}”

“{I just don’t want you running off-}”

“{DAD. PLEASE. I’m not going to leap into an unmarked shuttlecraft because they promised me sweets and adventure.}”

“{IT WORKED FOR US-}” Grenzgranr-of-Drezr called out from the dining-den, the mass of children starting to behave with the promise of food on the way.

“{To be fair, it was a very luxurious interior. Real leather and everything.}” Dzgranra said, nodding slightly.

“{Dad, pleeeeease~}”

“{Oh all right, alright. What’s got your tail in a twist this morning anyway?}”

Ngruzren-of-Arzgr rolled his jaw a slight moment before answering, and his father immediately cut him off. “{You have to wait until you finish growing, son.}”

“{I’m within a few centimeters of being done! My jaw is basically as big as it’s gonna get-}”

“{You still have to wait.}”

“{Daaad. Come on, I just go to the clinic, we get a sequence done, I’m fine with surgery-}”

“{And they’ll tell you what I’m telling you now, boy! You still have to wait if you don’t want to risk a permanent lisp.}”

Ngruzren growled, and his father matched his growl in sympathy. “{I don’t… like it, Dad.}”

“{I know, son, I know. And I don’t know why you got it – that disease has been out of our family for 4 generations. But it’s not permanent like in the ancient days, and nobody knows you have a prosthetic.}”

“{Trilly knows.}”

“{Trilly knows because you told her, son.}” Dzgranra said, gently bumping shoulders with his child. “{Nobody knows – especially no girls.}”

“{Dad.}”

“{I mean, that is why you care so much, right? Is it the Drezndz pack you have your eye on? You could do worse than union-backed silver miners-}”

“{DAD.}”

“[Number 488, done. And …this should be in triplicate.]”

“{Done, and we have the originals archived.}” Kzdzgrar-of-Rzndzre responded, running down the checklist for the 15th time. “{Permits to build?}”

The Karnakian city planner flicked through something only her HUD could see before nodding. “[Yes. Four freshwater sources, well within the defensive grid of the city, easy hookups to all amenities. We lose the Grand park, but, it puts them right in the center.]”

“{I don’t think they’ll take all of it-}”

“[Not for a few generations at least.]” Mused the Jornissian treasurer, as he ticked off a couple things on his list. “[Which means they’ll most likely be building from the outside, in.]”

“{Fine, fine. So it’s us and Volshak-prime?}”

“[Yep, but only by dint of them being the system capital. They don’t have the space to offer without a massive public works project, and their city grid is too restrictive. We were blessed to have the city surround a park so large-]”

“{Yeah. I’m going to miss it, though.}”

“[GENERATIONS.]” the Treasurer emphasized, his deep-throated rumbling hum seeming to rattle the table itself. “[It’s not like we’re losing it tomorrow, and think of the economic gain!]”

“{Yeah, yeah. ‘Welcome to the first mixed tiny-chomper colony’ – come buy a souvenir vest, stay a while~}”

“[You say that, but the [humans] are going to be a boon to us; not just in increased tourism and trade, but also in general industry as well. It’s a full colony, which includes cultural artefacts!]” the Karnakian trilled, wiggling with slight excitement. “[The new perspectives could give us whole entire cottage industries that we would be the founding city of! This could change our planet for millenia-]”

“{We still have to win the bid.}” Kzdzgrar-of-Rzndzre growled, scratching tiredly at her muzzle.

“[Erm. Well, yes. I’ve resubmitted it-]”

“[49? Times?]” The Jornissian chuckled, throwing out a guess.

“[37, thankyouverymuch.]”

“{Mmm. All we can do is wait.}”

The three city administrators looked at each other for a few moments, before a slight twinge of worry crept back into the room.

“{Mmmmmaybe we just doublecheck-}”

“[Yeah! Ok, so item -]”

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