Author: TPH

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Epilogue Part 2: Who let Michiganders into space?!

Rrsn’sspri was content, if not a bit bored. The older Jornissian mechanic had finished the first half of his shift, which now consisted of curious younglings asking him a bunch of questions about ‘saving a warm-cuddle’ and ‘going on adventures’, to which he responded in the appropriate half-truths of a father who knew just what to say to fire up little imaginations without causing too much property damage. The other half of his shift comprised of making the rounds and generally being an affable older maintenance worker to patrons and vendors of the station he worked at. The station had, of course, complied fully with the requests of the Senate team and their warm-cuddle leaders (a sentence he never thought he’d think, ever), as had he – but the time spent around the little guys turned him into a bit of a minor celebrity. Management, never wanting to let a good thing go to waste, attempted to get Rrsn’sspri to turn from a middle-management wrench-turner into a planet – or even system – hopping speaker, guest star, and tourist draw.

He had referred them to Mry’brerr-of-Dzrgrin, his Union spokesperson, and although she was sympathetic towards the increased revenue and clout that would bring the local economy, she stood firm. So, here he was in a happy medium; he’d “work” for a good half of the day, and then he’d do his actual job… and since he was so high up in the ranks, Union rules stated that all non-emergency tickets had to be logged almost a half-day early for him to work on them, and even then a majority of those tickets would be handled by juniors on his crew.

Effectively, it meant that for the rest of his career – however long he wanted it to last – he’d get to spend it telling stories, getting free food from his friends, the shop owners – who already gave him free food (but now used it as marketing, the vultures!) – and otherwise coasting. Not that he minded the additional attention or the lack of difficult work, but it did tend to make things a bit same-y. He checked his wrist computer for active work orders; The hydroponic pumps were still getting overheated even after the algae clog removal, which probably pointed towards an insulation or lubrication problem – and the rest of his ticket queue had been cleared.

“[Hey! Rrsn’sspri!]”

Rrsn’sspri looked up from his forearm and gave a little wave at his Karnakian friend – Its’iam’I, who ran a baked bread shop. The middle-aged Karnakian waved him over, and with a smile he slithered across the deck to the outside of the small food court.

“[Hey yourself! What’s going on?]” Rrsn’sspri said, looking at the day’s work.

“[Ah, you know – this damn station is falling apart, my oven catches fire, the power goes out at night and I think maintenance is so cheap that they recycle the air!]” Its’iam’I rattled off, laughing with his old friend. “[But, I finished some of those n’dili twists – and they’re right out of the oven, so they’re extra hot-]”

Rrsn’sspri perked up, waving his computer-clad forearm over the payment kiosk. “[I’d really appreciate those right about now-]”

“[I have been giving you free snacks for 200 years, you overgrown insulated tube!]” Its’iam’I chided, canceling the transaction. “[And each time I cancel the transaction-]”

“[And each time I drop it in the tip jar once you turn away.]” Rrsn’sspri said, matter-of-factly. “[Meaning I’ve been winning this argument for 200 years straight.]”

Its’iam’I let out a somewhat rude trill as he turned his back on his friend to tend to the oven near the back of the shop, the two of them settling into a long-running conversation on spices, dietary changes, family additions, problem children and the like. As Rrsn’sspri really didn’t have much responsibility anymore, the conversations tended to linger a bit longer – and that lingering brought in the secondary crowds, who were now curious as to what the hero was snacking on, and … well.

Rrsn’sspri smiled as he waved his goodbye and slithered out of the suddenly-materialized customer line in his old friend’s shop.

If a wall panel falls and there’s no one around to see it, is a maintenance ticket still made?

Rrsn’sspri rolled his jaw and smirked as he saw the wall panel – the same one that his one-time warm-cuddle friend popped out of – laying flat against the ground. As it was now the wall panel it had gained some infamy within the station, and Rrsn’sspri could no longer tell if it had fallen down due to weak magnetic seals or curious station visitors who hoped to pop off the “magic panel” and find a warm-cuddle of their own – as if the robot maintenance corridor somehow spawned them!

“<5 creds on it being the seals. Surely everyone got it out of their system after the first few days…>” Rrsn’sspri mumbled to himself, pushing his snout into the bag of cooling snacks and pulling out a twisted stick of baked dough and mineral chalk. It slowly disappeared into his mouth as he, in like speed, made his way over to the problem panel. “<I could’ve sworn we were going to either make this a station attraction or drill the damn thing to the wall->”

Rrsn’sspri leaned down with a grunt that belied his age – but hesitated as his hand hovered over the edge of the panel. ‘Surely not.’ He thought, and stayed frozen like that for a moment. As nothing changed, and the hum of the station continued around him, he finally gripped the errant piece of formed plastic and metal, and hefted it up.

“[Ope! Oh hey there bud – that’s not how that goes there, now does it?]”

The voice was higher pitched, had an off-kilter accent, and was oddly put together. Rrsn’sspri furrowed his brow, and turned around, staring with a mix of confusion and awe at yet another warm-cuddle. This one was flanked on both sides by two very alert and very lethal-looking guards – but that fact didn’t seem to dim the smaller alien’s personality at all.

“<Uh. How… did you… get here?>” Rrsn’sspri said, a dozen questions forming in his mind.

“[Why I just used the doors there bud. S’ easy as [Cabrewing], but ya don’t got to go to the Party Store first!]” The warm-cuddle wobbled forward, and Rrsn’sspri took a hard look at him as he came closer. This one was older – male, he could tell by the facial hair – but it was all grays with black streaks – or black with gray patches, Rrsn’sspri couldn’t tell. The face also had wrinkles that seemed to exaggerate the warm-cuddles own expressions, and Rrsn’sspri wondered if they used their face so much that it caused wrinkles in their skin.

“[Oh hey you’re with the Union there?]” The warm-cuddle asked, tapping the sheet metal with a gloved hand. “[Bah, these clamps wouldn’t hold up a Doorwall, let alone one o’ these large panels of yours!]”

Rrsn’sspri leaned forward a bit, the potent mixture of curiosity, novelty and someone who finally understood causing him to temporarily forget the armed guards that stood within arm’s reach. “<Exactly! Just because we can make our own magnets by harvesting asteroids and letting them cook near the reactor doesn’t mean they’re going to be good!>”

“[Hah! Seccies using the core?]” The warm-cuddle said, picking at one of the magnetic clamps with his hand. “[Wish we had that – our core was used for secondary heating. No, our seccies had the bright idea to just drag ‘em through high atmo, let the magnetic field of Dirt take care of it for us!]”

Rrsn’sspri laughed. “<And how did that work out for you?>”

“[Oh it worked, it worked far too well. Last I checked, those new REM asteroids were permanently stuck to the station bay doors!]” The warm-cuddle laughed, loudly. The sound started to draw some attention, and out of the corner of Rrsn’sspri’s vision he noticed a few people perk up and try to move forward towards the warm-cuddle… before someone came up from behind and dissuaded them.

Ah. That would… explain a lot.

“<So what brings you to my little corner of the universe?>” Rrsn’sspri asked, hefting the panel under his free arm – in slow, steady movements.

“[Oh don’t you worry about those FIPs]” The warm-cuddle said, waving his hand in their general direction. “[They won’t be a problem, bud. I just wanted to see the man who saved my son!]”

“<Y-Oh.>” Rrsn’sspri said, giving a little bow. “<Well, this really is a treat! But I wouldn’t go so far as to say I saved him – merely, chaperoned for just a few minutes.>”

“[Now don’t be modest – I know warm-cuddle wiggle-nap can be a handfull.]” The older warm-cuddle said, laughing. “[After all, he learned from the best. I’m out on this little adventure for … oh, what is it. Emotional and familial support? Bah, just send some Fudgies down and give ‘em a bumpy cake care package, that’s enough!]” Nate’s father sighed. “[But it’ll be good to see him after these past few years. You know video doesn’t do it justice, right?]”

Rrsn’sspri nodded. “<That’s true, that’s true. I’m lucky enough that I’m only a half-day flight away from home, so->”

“[Oh! You have kids?!]” the warmcuddle interrupted, perking up immediately.

“<I do! And a whole mess of grandkids and a few great-grandchildren on the way->”

“[Well let me see’em, bud! You got a [Deer] Camp for Mushroom Hunting?]”

Rrsn’sspri half-smiled, shaking his head. “<I have no idea what that is, but I do try to get them out as often as I can. It’s good to keep some of the old ways alive, and there’s no better way to do that than to get outside.>”

“[Absolutely!]” The warm-cuddle clapped his hands together in agreement. “[I’m warm-cuddle-union-mandated-break.]” The older human reached out his hand, and the Jornissian took it.

“<Rrsn’sspri. Pleasure to meet you.>”

“[Same! Now bud, I want to hear about your family, but I saw a booth a little while back that makes custom shirts…]”

Rrsn’sspri had to pinch himself, every so often, as the second half of his shift unfolded. It started off with free snacks – which, hey! That’s always good! – the sudden apparent spontaneous lifelong friendship with his first warm-cuddle’s father, and then the production of matching shirts. The shirts were pure white, made of a synthetic material, and had a somewhat awkward picture of Rrsn’sspri, warm-cuddle union-mandated-break sitting on his lap, and the two of them against the backdrop of the panel – which Rrsn’sspri was starting to believe actually held magical powers of some sort, and would not let out of his sight. After that, they began station-exploring, comparing parenting tips and tricks, and generally getting along swimmingly.

It was a whirlwind 10 hours of conversation, joking, multiple meals, messing with the juniors, and almost starting a diplomatic incident with a bag of hammers and a sack of lightbulbs. In the end, after generating a couple dozen more trouble tickets for maintenance to manage, the two parted on very kind terms.

‘He really did get it from his father.’ Rrsn’sspri mused, and then laughed, as the Senate ship un-docked from his station and slipped between the stars.  

The average gym and rec area ceiling height on any given Senate ship was around 25 – 30 feet tall, or between 0.000001km – 10 trillion picometers (for our international friends). This is because, as a rule of thumb, an athletic xenos could easily jump up to twice his own body height – meaning, an 8ft tall alien could leap an additional 8-16ft in the air, and if they had augmentations or were in a suit – well. Their vertical leap game was downright unfair. Jornissians, as always, don’t count because they can just be long whenever they want and everyone else agrees that that’s cheating.

The particular recreation room we are focusing on is Rec Room 12-B on the Joint Task Force “Old Yeller”’s Senate Flagship, “The Last Word”. It was not any better or worse than any other military rec room on any other modern ship; balls, weights, nets, pulleys, chains and the like all had their own cubbies and cases along the wall, and the floors and walls were painted with overlapping lines of various common games; if this was a human rec room, you’d see lines for both football and basketball and soccer on the floor, as an example, with squash, axe-throwing and jai alai lines painted along the walls.

However, none of those lines – human or otherwise – were being used in 12-B. Instead, there was a single, incredibly popular game going on.

“[GET DOWN HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT.]”

“I HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG BUT FOLLOW THE RULES OF NATURE -ohshitthatwasclose”

Tiki landed a bit hard, grunting as she rolled on the laminated floor. P“pacheep looked around nervously before attempting to dart forward – only to be pulled back by one of his new crew members/wardens, a Dorarizin male named “Drongo”. It was good that he did, because Tiki shot the younger Karnakian a look, which roughly translated to “don’t you interfere if you value your life” as she stood back up, shaking the stinging out of her legs.

“[I just want to talk.]” Tiki said, to no one and everyone assembled. The entire gym was packed along the walls with crewmates of The Perfect, crewmates of The Last Word, and various human liaisons who were all engaged in the oldest military sport of all time.

“Five creds says the Dorarizin gets him when he comes back.” A tiny-chomper said, leaning against an idle Jornissian.

“[Ten creds if he doesn’t make it in 5 jumps?]” The Jornissian idly replied, and got a confirmatory pat on his side. 

“Well we can talk from here!” Nate crowed, standing on the metallic rafter at the top of the gym ceiling. Ostensibly he was up there to help remove old, abandoned balls and gym equipment for a more “sanitary exercise experience” but once his location got out to his former crew, the real reason why he was camped up there became apparent:

The little shit was hiding.

“[NNNNNGRAH!]” Toko roared as he launched himself from the floor. Arms stretched up, he clawed at the empty air a few feet below Nate, who gave him a sheepish wave as the disgraced priest, lesser sibling, and all-around miffed Karnakian fell back to the ground with a thump, empty-handed. There was a round of cheers, jeers, and taps of tablets-to-phones as credits electronically changed hands, and at least one or two enterprising humans had worked up a snack business by emptying the vending machines and selling the snacks to the assembled group for a low 200% markup.

Drongo patted P“pacheep’s back. “[Sit back, lad. She doesn’t need any help.]”

“[I know, I know, I just… don’t like it when she’s angry.]” P“pacheep said, picking at his forearm feathers in concern. “[I know I’m… not the best at a lot of things, but I’d like to think that I’m helping out, and I’d like to help out here.]”

Drongo sighed. “[You can’t, and you shouldn’t.]”

“[What do you mean?]” P“pacheep asked. “[I’m helpful! Sure, I still need to be tracked, but. I take care of chores around the ship where I can, I help with cooking and some of the more menial tasks-]”

P“pacheep was silenced by Drongo, who rested his hand on the top of P“pacheep’s muzzle in a “please just stop talking” fashion. “[Son. Nate did this all on his own – this is his dishwashing liquid, and he needs to soak in it. Everyone here but you are trained to handle humans; if you step in he could get hurt.]”

Drongo was interrupted by another scream – from both Nate and Tiki – as the two missed each other by a few feet. P“pacheep gave Drongo a look as his court-appointed-guardian-girlfriend landed on the mat with a whump, rolling with the impact along the ground.

“[I know how it looks, but trust me. He’s going to be fine. Mostly. Probably. We have first aid.]” Drongo said, assuring nobody. “[Speaking of, it’s my turn now.]”

Drongo patted P“pacheep on the cheek and rolled his shoulders, walking out onto the open ground underneath Nate. The two looked at each other – one pointing his finger up, the other giving a friendly wave back down.

“[You didn’t let me finish giving you your shots, Nate.]” Drongo said, stretching out the soreness of his muscles from earlier attempts.

“You kept using the same asscheek, you shag carpet!” Nate complained, much to the approval and cheering of his human compatriots. “That right there’s gotta be some form of abuse!”

Drongo smiled as he looked up. “[It’s not my fault you look like a giant, singular ass, Nate.]”

The retort was met with a round of “Oooooos” and a couple more pointed jokes fired off at the out-of-reach human, who responded to his peanut gallery with a couple rude gestures of his own. As Drongo squatted down – ignoring a few cat calls from some thirsty Dorarizin female marines – he prepared himself for another high leap. His legs tensed, his vision narrowed, and unbidden by him the main door opened.

“[Oh hey now what’s all this then there, bud?]”

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Epilogue Part 1: Judgment Day

The holding cell was a glorified aluminum box. It was machine-brushed metal on all sides, with heavy sealed doors on either end, and it screamed “transitory”: There were no chairs, no beds, desks, water sources, heat sources – nothing. Brains hummed to herself as she studied her pen – the lights were recessed into the floor, ceiling and walls – behind reinforced glass, and most likely paired with some discrete cameras. She was mindful to remain presentable the entire time: back curved right, hood splayed out and down, eyes downcast slightly in a demure way…

She was good, and a small smile escaped her iron-tight penitent expression.

“[Prisoner 732.]”

Brains looked up as her warden called her, a small portal on the door to the front of the holding pen sliding open. A human head peered in, studying her behind a formal but anonymous helmet, gilded with symbols that made no sense to her but were obviously of some import to her warm-cuddle hosts.

“<Yes.>” she responded, flatly and soft.

“[The court will see you now. No sudden movements. Stay where you are and wait for your escort.]”

“<Yes.>” Brains closed her eyes and lowered her head – partially as theater to show herself as less threatening, as meek, and partially… well, because she was going to court, and that was no laughing matter. She did her best to tug her bright orange shirt down – it still smelled freshly fabricated, and itched in uncomfortable ways – but the shackles around her wrists and the cages that covered her hands made it incredibly difficult to do so. Before she could really fuss with her prison uniform the door mechanism activated, tumbling locks disconnecting as the entire front of her holding pen swung slowly open. Brains looked up and composed herself as two of her kinsmen slithered into the cage with her. Watching intently behind them were two fully suited combat suits that obviously held warm-cuddles, but they were… very different from the ones that had stormed her base; whereas those looked like brutish automatons, these were gilded with various shiny metals, braided cords, draped with fabrics and chained with bells and symbols. They were beautiful things, painted in white, blue, red, green and black, in a way that drew the eye towards the flourish of their adornments. The spectacle gave her pause, and her guard – who had now moved behind her – paused as she collected herself.

She almost missed the nasty looking saws and pneumatic hammers that replaced the hands on those machines. Almost.

“[Prisoner 732. Present yourself to the court for judgment.]”

Brains inhaled deeply, and slithered forward as she was instructed – no sudden movements, no outbursts. Slow, steady, telegraphed actions. The warm-cuddle guard that spoke to her stood just a few meters outside of the entrance, holding an ostentatious tablet in his arm that invoked feelings of something ancient, as if it was hewn from rock and chiseled from hand. He tapped a few things on it, before turning around smartly and marching forward in measured steps. Brains followed him out of her pen, and the magnificence of the court bore down on her in a display of…. Wealth wasn’t the word.

Power. That was the word.

Brains slithered out of her pen, and her tail touched soft, red carpet. She let her gaze wander and realized she was in a pit; the stand in the center of the depressed circle before her was made out of lacquered wood, carved and inlaid with silver and gold, with small steps leading down to where her judgment would be meted out. The walls were high on all sides, with two doors on either side of her pen leading to parts unknown. Tapestries spilled over the edge of the wall, and she followed them up with her eyes only to be dazzled by the light of an actual crystal chandelier, small LEDs implanted around each gem to cast shimmering light across the entire room. There was apparently a gallery, or an observatory there, as her country-bumpkin gawking started to generate soft murmurs that bounced off of the walls, the acoustics making any soft sound totally indistinct. Eventually her eyes settled on four ivory-white plinths, upon which one of every species sat in some traditional judgmental vestments of their kind: An old Male Jornissian symbolically strapped to the earth – not good, that probably meant he was a real traditionalist. There was a relatively middle-aged female Karnakian with braided red-and-black feathers draped over her face and chest – probably… mingling, so a bit more merciful hopefully. The third was another old Dorarizin female wrapped in a rough-braided shawl… which could mean either traditionalist or absolutionist – Brains couldn’t remember at the time – and finally a warm-cuddle in a black robe.

Well. That told her nothing.

“[Prisoner 732, to the stand. Please.]” The warm-cuddle said, gripping a relatively high bar and swinging it out, the wooden gate door beckoning her forward to her future. For the first time since this whole ordeal started, Brains felt a cold pit of finality settle in her stomach. With the gentle prodding in her back from the muzzle of a gun, she stepped forward.

The warm-cuddle stood up, tablet held out at full arm’s length, and began to read.

“[Sr’srenz’pssri of the unnamed Pirate Group, known as “Brains” among the crew. Charged with no less than 400 counts of the following: Grand Theft-by-taking, Grand Money Laundering, Grand Movement of illicit goods, Grand Movement of stolen goods. Charged with 27 counts of assault and battery. Charged with 7 counts of Grand Theft Stellar.]”

Brains smiled internally. Those were some good memories, but the court didn’t know the half of it.

“[… Additionally charged with one count of Kidnapping. One count of false imprisonment. One count of bodily endangerment of an endangered species. These are all the charges arrayed before the court.]”

Ah. Those are some of the… not as good memories.

“[The defendant has entered in a plea of Guilty on all counts, as coordinated by the prosecution. Does the defendant affirm that this plea was made under no duress and of their complete and total volition?]”

“<Yes.>” Brains said, standing tall. The cages around her hands stopped her from fidgeting, but the desire was there – the anxiousness settling over her as the weight of her crimes were now up for debate. She was able to secure a sentence under 500 years, but to someone of her age… she could still die behind bars.

“[Bailiff presents the guilty to the court for deliberation.]” The human said, tucking his formal tablet under his arm and stepping away from Brains’ stand. The murmuring that had welcomed her into the literal pit of judgment now picked back up as her crimes were made known, and Brains attempted to shut out the white noise.

“[You have done our people a great shame.]” The Jornissian judge said, staring unblinking with a hard expression. “[You would have been found guilty had you not plead out based on the evidence gathered – but I have no desire to cut your sentence.]”

“[Sir.]” The Dorarizin judge said, her voice cutting through like glass ripping silk. “[She is guilty, but in a position of power she attempted to coordinate the rescue of warm-cuddle wiggle-nap; from testimony given by the host crew, she was always de-escalating confrontation and attempting to provide solutions that would not lead to further bloodshed.]”

“[Is it a kind heart, or self serving?]” The Karnakian judge murmured between the other two, tilting her head as she stared at Brains with an inscrutable expression. “[Is she playing sides for survival, or because it’s the right thing to do?]”

Brains, wisely, kept her mouth shut and her eyes down as the three turned her fate over in their hands like an idle plaything. Hisses of judgement and growls of mercy mingled and echoed, bounced between the three as they debated for a few moments. One voice was silent; the Human Judge with ebony skin stared at her under his black cloak, his hand running through short curly white hair every few minutes as he read evidence and listened to his colleagues. After a few more minutes, the tribunal had come to a conclusion – but all eyes were on the warm-cuddle.

“[We learned scholars of justice submit a sentence of 300 years, with lifetime parole.]” The Traditionalist said, bowing his head slightly towards the warm-cuddle. “[For your consideration, sir.]”

“[Yeah, I. Hm.]” The warm-cuddle judge said, furrowing his brow and placing the tablet down on his judgment seat. “[I appreciate you attempting to de-escalate things, and I appreciate and take into consideration the counsel of the justices at my side. Brains, is it?]”

“<Yes, sir.>”

The human judge leaned forward. “[Did you ever attack, accost, harm with weapons or your own natural talents, anyone under your … let’s say dubious care?]”

“<No, sir.>”

“[That matches records. So, that means you’re non-violent, if not still a criminal.]” The warm-cuddle justice said, writing something down on his screen. “[What got you into this life of piracy?]”

“<A bad planet, a bad divorce, and a desire to never starve in a gutter again. Sir.>” Brains said, raising her head just high enough to see the justices out of her peripheral vision.

“[But you never had the stomach for the worse stuff.]” The warm-cuddle judge said, and Brains didn’t know if he was addressing her or himself. “[Well. Taking into consideration the counsel of the justices at my side, the reviewed evidence of your crimes as well as your willingness to work with the authorities both in a position of power and out of it, for de-escalating situations that would have increased both human and non-human bloodshed, as well as your continued co-operation in gathering evidence for your former colleagues, I can’t in good faith throw the book at you.]”

The Jornissian on his ivory tower sagged. “[With all due respect, justice warm-cuddle twelve-honey-buns, at some point you must start being hard on these lifetime criminals.]”

“[And I appreciate that, but 300 years is damn near 4 generations, and that is an unacceptable, undue, cruel and unusual punishment.]” The human justice said, shaking his head. “[100 years… no. 10 years of confinement in a minimal-security facility, with 50 years parole. She will have to divest herself of all possessions before reporting to prison, and allow an audit of her electronically held funds for the duration of her parole. Damn if that still doesn’t sound ridiculous, but…]” He reached forward and grabbed a tiny hammer, and smacked it against his desk – the sound, although light and sharp, carried a deep sense of finality to it.

Brains bowed her head. Yet another wiping of the slate, and another new beginning. This… this was something she was used to now, and she smiled.

She’d be back among the stars soon enough.

“[… Attendant One.]”

“|That’s me!|” Toko said, rolling his shoulders as he attempted to get his ceremonial garb settled on his back. He too stood in the holding cell, but with no guards and no chains. In the grand theater of this trial – the first one where a human’s life was put in real jeopardy due to illegal activity – everyone was judged for what they did and didn’t do. For some, this meant getting medals pinned on their chests, for others commendations and a glowing review on their resume.

For him, however…

The door swung open, the little-needs-protecting standing tall at the exit. He was looking down at a marble-encased tablet, and Toko idly mused if it was real marble from Dirt or that synthetic stuff that was just made in-system. As if sensing his musing the human looked up, and waved him out. Toko moved forward fluidly, standing at attention at the exit to his cell. He was no stranger to military tribunals, and although this was a bit more lavish than those other courts, there was no less power or scrutiny here. His little-needs-protecting guard guided him to the penitents stand, and he kneeled with submissive flourish.

“[Toko of approved little-needs-protecting intern ship -921-68B. Served with distinction in the Ou’thi rebellion. Served with distinction in three other theaters, Redacted. Received four medals for valor; wounded in the line of service eighteen times. Passed Senate scrutiny and UTF scrutiny, currently serving with Nathaniel Callaway-]”

“[Yo!]”

The bailiff, Toko, and pretty much everyone turned to look at the second stand in the pit; reserved usually for the defense, today it was taken up by the human in question, who was not paying attention and thought it was roll call. Nate looked around, before sheepishly waving at everyone giving him attention.

“[S-sorry.]”

The Bailiff sighed, and continued. “[Arraigned here for one count of general blasphemy, one count of impersonating a priest or monk of a holy order, one count of indoctrination – forced, one count of indoctrination – unforced, and building a manipulative cult detrimental to the development of the soul.]” The little-needs-protecting tucked the tablet under his arm, and turned to face the judges. “[We present him to the court for disciplinary action.]”

“[You must understand, first, that you will serve no time.]” The Karnakian Judge said, a soft song in her voice as she leapt at the opportunity to speak first. “[However, we can’t turn a blind eye to someone using such degenerate methods, even in the defense of our allies.]”

“[It does present a moral hazard.]” The Jornissian traditionalist said, a slight smile on his features. “[And we do not want to be responsible for the degradation of our allies’ moral fiber.]”

“[I thought it was funny as shit.]” Nate said, unprompted, which caused the human judge to burst out laughing. As the black-clad little-needs-protecting tried to compose himself, the Karnakian Judge simply made eye contact with Toko and tilted her head towards the laughing Justice. Toko wiggled his crest in a so-so gesture, doing his best to hide his smile and look properly contrite.

“|I am properly ashamed, High Mother.|” Toko said, years of covering for his friend’s bullshit keeping his voice level. “|I view any reprimand from your seat of Righteousness to be righteous itself.|”

“[Very well. As you are so penitent, The court woul-]”

Nate raised his hand. “[Um. Wait a minute – can I ask a question?]”

The Dorarizin Judge inhaled deeply, before looking down at the key witness. “[Yes, little-needs-protecting wiggle-nap?]”

“[Uh, is everything said here a matter of record?]”

“[Yes…]” The Human Judge said, leaning forward with a smile. “[What’s on your mind, son?]”

“[Well… I’ve had the pleasure of counting Toko as a friend for many years, and I was wondering if we could add something to the record? For posterity and all that.]”

“[Sure.]” The Jornissian Judge said, leaning forward. “[What would you like to add?]”

Nate smiled wide. “[I’d just like to state, that for the record, Toko has admitted to me personally that his older and better sister, Tiki, is his inspiration and guiding moral light, and if it wasn’t for her constant help and affirmations, that he’d be a homeless vagabond.]”

Nate leaned forward, staring intently at his Karnakian friend who now had an incredibly sour expression. “[Isn’t that right? You can’t lie under oath, you know – moral hazard and all that.]”

Toko worked his jaw as he pondered his options. Glancing up, he caught the intense gaze of the judges: The Jornissian was bemused, the Karnkian was confused, the Dorarizin was doing her best to keep a straight face, but the Human judge started to laugh again. Banging his gavel, he pointed down at Toko with a wide smile.

“[Now that’s a sibling rivalry if I’ve ever seen one! If it pleases the court, an admission of the stated, ahem, “facts”, as truth in lieu of any formal punishment!]”

Toko pursed his lips, his feathers drawn tight against his body. He looked down, then back at Nate – and had to turn away as the smugness radiating off of the little bastard hit him with an almost physical force.

“[Honored Judges, could you please just kill me?]” Toko asked, to the mirthful laughter of those above. With a sigh, Toko stood and affirmed his “truth”.

And somewhere in the gallery high above his head, his sister, feathers puffed out in a wave of emotions to give her the roundness of an orb, let out a very inappropriate sing-song trill of victory.

“[Prisoner 848.]”

“|O-oh, yes, I’m sorry!|” P“pacheep said, stumbling to his feet in the cool, nondescript cell. A few minutes ago he was dragged in here – not unkindly, just, his feet didn’t seem to work right anymore – and dropped off without an explanation or a word. His wrists were shackled together, the orange clothing he was forced to change into chafed, and the bar they placed between his feet only let him shuffle in a half-walk, half-step. Everything was uncomfortable, and part of P“pacheep just wanted it to all be over – they couldn’t do anything to him that his mind hadn’t tormented him with already.

The other part of him desperately wanted to be anywhere else but here.

“[…The court will see you now. No sudden movements. Stay where you are and wait for your escort.]”

“|O-okay!|” P“pacheep said, hoping his eagerness to cooperate would translate into … something. The door swung open, and two Karnakian guards – very large ones, he noted as they stepped into the cell with him – made their way to his sides. He looked between them with confusion and desperate hope, his expression reflected off of the polished visors that obscured every tell of his species’ physiology. In one fluid movement the two of them hooked their arms under his, and began to march him out into the great unknown.

The blinding light hit his eyes unexpectedly, and he screwed them shut as the sensory overload washed over him. He was from a poor farming family; he had never seen such wealth and opulence before, and as he cracked his eyes open he was flooded with new sensations, new sights, new smells and sounds. He looked around, unblinking, jaw slightly open as his escort dragged him forward, opening gates made of material he had no words for, under banners made of exotic fabrics whose trim alone would have been enough to pay for a laborer’s wages for a year. He looked around now, unashamed as he came to terms with being a small part stuck in the gears of a great machine. He didn’t know if those gears would spit him out or crush him, and at the moment he didn’t have the wherewithal to care.

“[Prisoner 848. Present yourself to the court for judgment.]”

The support under his arms vanished, and P“pacheep – not paying attention – crumpled to the floor unceremoniously. The murmurs swelled and abated, and P“pacheep sat up.

“|I’m here, everyone!|” P“pacheep said, as cheerfully as he could muster, an awed but terrified smile spreading across his features. “|Um. How are you?|”

The human bailiff sighed, and presented his tablet to the Judges. “[P“pacheep of the unnamed Pirate Group. Charged with 20 counts of the following: Knowingly accepting illegal goods, knowingly accepting stolen goods, knowingly laundering stolen funds. 15 counts of knowingly destroying private property in excess of $50,000GRC. Knowingly joining a… cult… of degradable moral effect. The Defendant has entered no plea, has not indicated if they want a defense appointed for them, has not indicated … anything, your Honors. He is presented to the court.]”

P“pacheep looked up, and turned his attention between the faces of the Justices, who looked down upon him with mixed expressions. He settled on the little-needs-protecting as a matter of curiosity, looking at him with the intense stare of the youthful innocent.

“[T’sk. You can’t have molted more than twice.]”

P“pacheep turned to look at the Karnakian judge, and puffed out his feathers slightly. “[F-four times, your… honor?]”

An awkward silence settled on the court, and the Karnakian Judge simply leaned back in her seat, staring into the middle distance. The Jornissian traditionalist – for the first time in anyone’s memory – was chuckling, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“[I can’t. This is just…]” He started, before there was a loud clap. The Dorarizin Judge sighed as she looked down once more, the perennial witness taking the defenses’ stand.

“[Little-needs-protecting wiggle-nap. May I inquire as to what you’re doing?]” The Dorarizin Judge said, as Nate stood tall and proud at the side of P“pacheep – a Karnakian he did not know.

“[Yes, your honors! As P“pacheep here has no defense, I would like to be his defense and vouch for his character, actions and all that other good stuff.]” Nate said, the earlier awkwardness of Toko’s “trial” being replaced with a creeping boldness.

The Human Judge leveled his gavel at Nate, shaking it slightly. “[Nate, I’m going to allow this, but only because I’m certain we here are of the same mind. Why are you interjecting yourself in this criminals’ trial? It’s a tight case, son.]”

“[Your honor, I’ve squeezed through tighter thighs-]”

“[What.]”

“[-spots before, and I have material evidence for the accused that will actually affect the trial.]” Nate recovered, hooking his thumbs in his front pants pockets. P“pacheep stared dumbfounded as this little-needs-protecting, which he had never seen before, went to his passionate defense, every so often looking down and pricking his feet with one of his toe-claws to see if he was dreaming.

“[Now, assembled Justices, witnesses, and people of the court. It came to my attention that this man here,]” Nate waved in P“pacheep’s direction, as he slowly began to turn around, addressing the gallery. “[helped save my life. He was misled by my friend, Toko, into a cult, and because he’s so pure of heart he followed it without question. He carried another friend of mine, Tiki, when she was wounded, and together the three of them helped uncover my location and direct my rescue. His criminal record is that of a petty thief, managing boxes and handling goods – he’s never raised his fist in anger, nor has he attempted to force my imprisoned colleagues and friends into compromising or degrading conditions. Just look at him, for God’s sake!]” Nate thundered, raising his hands to the ceiling slowly as he spoke.

“[Who here hasn’t fallen in with the wrong crowd, made the wrong choice? Who here was lucky enough that the police didn’t check you, that you made it home safe, that the theft wasn’t caught, or whatever illegal thing you were doing turned out okay? He – this man, is the other side of that coin, the one who chose poorly and is now paying for it – but he is not evil.]” Nate thundered, his voice echoing throughout the courtroom, it’s dominance forcing everyone else’s silence. He rested his hands on the banister, and looked at the stranger just outside of arm’s reach.

“[But moreso, and under the threat of perjury, I attest to this: P“pacheep is madly in love with Tiki, and that love is returned.]” Nate stared directly at the moisture farmer as an awkward squak came from somewhere in the gallery.

Nate smiled, widely, hungrily, as he leaned forward. The expression was lost on the assembled xenos, and especially on P“pacheep, but the Human judge caught it.

Leaning back, twirling the gavel between his hands, the human justice spoke. “[Well, lad? Speak up – tell us about this woman.]”

“|O-oh?|” P“pacheep cooed, looking around in confusion. He spun slowly in place, his shackles clinking as he awkwardly moved, attempting to look up – to find the face of the woman that he had fallen for. All he could see was banners, light, and four judgmental faces.

“|Ah. I. Oh.|” P“pacheep raised his arms slightly, his unbound arm-feathers splaying out in defeat. “|Oh. Has Tr’iliu been kind to me?! I have held the whole of all things in my arms, and she thanked me. I have stared into her eyes and seen the sights that comfort me in my prison and chains. Neither Ro’ilki’s velvet darkness, nor the blinding light of the One, has been close to the darkness I feel when she’s gone, nor the brightness of all things when she is near. I am but a poor man, I am young, and I am stupid, but I know what I know; I know what love is, and I have tasted it and found it intoxicating, and I wish to drown in it. I know what love is, because I am going to lose it – because I am never going to see her again, and that – that cuts me deeper than any thing I have ever known.|”

P“pacheep looked up at the Justices, and raised his arms, silently pleading. “|I know nothing else. I have no more words.|”

“|Love turns us all to poets.|” The Karnakian Justice murmured, resting her jaw in her hand as her braids parted to the side. “|Other than a wonderful declaration… what was the point of this, little-needs-protecting wiggle-nap?|”

“[I would like to put the fate of this man in the hands of the woman he loves!]” Nate said, crossing his arms over his chest in triumph. “[What better way to rehabilitate someone than with love? And what better parole officer than the woman who loves him?! Prison will only damage his character further, but with a strong role model and following love – that is how he becomes a positive member of society!]”

The Judges mused. The Gallery murmured in hushed whispers. The Bailiff attempted to hold his head in his hands, and P“pacheep – for his part – paid them no mind, trying to search the sky for the face of the one he loved.

There was another inappropriate trill somewhere above their heads – not of victory this time, no, but one of pure exasperation.

“[Prisoner 914.]”

“<Here.>”

“[The court will see you now. No sudden movements. Stay where you are and wait for your escort.]”

Bleppy sighed and sagged. He was told not to worry, that this was all a show trial, that nothing would go wrong, that everyone was going to give a shining testimony to his character and his actions… but at the end of the day, even he knew: He was part of a landmark trial. He – and his crimes – were being broadcasted to all parts of known space. He was guilty, and that would never go away…

The door swung open, and he reached up – the shackles around his wrists loose enough to stop him from freely moving, but still bound him close together – and adjusted his prosthetic.

“[Prisoner 914. Come out and present yourself to the court for judgment.]”

And so he did.

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 32: Not all tears are an evil.

Start to finish, when it was all said and done, the entire adventure – as Nate would call it – took around a week. For humans in general, a week is both incredibly long and very short, but for people who lived over a millenia, a week sometimes felt like a day. The Jornissian who sat against the cool nickel-iron wall reflected on that as he watched a pile of his rightfully ill-gotten gains get sorted out and tossed around by tiny gloved hands, his whole world turned upside-down in what felt like a shift change. If you had asked him a month ago, he would have told you that warm-cuddles were nothing more than a really successful marketing ploy by some large corporation that had gotten totally out of hand; now, he was witness to a sight that a majority of the galaxy living today would never witness in the flesh. Although his physical goods would be impounded, and his digital goods and accounts may be seized when it’s all said and done, no one could take this memory from him.

More importantly, no one could take the recording of this memory from him, and he ventured at some point that might be worth a decent chunk of change. All he had to do was keep looking around the incredibly intimidating Karnakian soldier and their hypersonic lattice rifle that waved in his general direction if he so much as fidgeted a little to much. He wasn’t alone against the wall, no – a good dozen of his colleagues were sat down with him, some bound, some unbound, but all told to sit perfectly still or else. The threat wasn’t so much implied as guaranteed with an example, as there used to be thirteen.

And so the Jornissian pirate tilted his head a bit, attempting to look at the little warm-cuddles as they scrambled and babbled to themselves and other sleek-armored soldiers as the crawling, rambling horde moved things and tagged things and generally made a mess of everything in an apparently organized way that he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

“[Stay where you are.]” A robotic, modulated voice commanded. The Jornissian pirate looked up at the Karnakian soldier, face shrouded by an obsidian helmet that betrayed no emotion or indication of attention. It was one of the longer phrases that the soldier had uttered, and it gave the pirate pause.

“[They’re… real.]” He said, looking into the black obelisk of the soldier’s face. There was an imperceptible change in his stature, a small shift – or maybe it was just imagined – but the Karnakian gave him no verbal acknowledgment except to say with his body language ‘no shit.’

“[Sorry.]”

He got no response from his captor, the Karnakian choosing to instead sweep their weapon slowly over his colleagues. As the Jornissian no longer had the soldier’s full attention, he leaned over just a bit more to capture a better angle. They were fascinating, from a biological perspective – half the size of what any upstanding, thinking species should be, with a center of mass that seemed to shift depending on what they were doing. How they didn’t just fall over more often was a mystery!

“[Stick them up!]”

The Jornissian turned towards the voice as the Karnakian soldier thumbed on his rifle’s full-automatic mode and stepped to the side, never looking away from the wall. In his place stood a warm-cuddle in what was probably a good approximation of an armored suit, if there wasn’t so much fluff underneath the few blocks of what looked to be actual aluminum armor stuck on top. The warm-cuddle was holding his one finger out straight from his fist, with a second sticking straight up. The Jornissian pirate had no idea what any of that meant, but the high-pitched whine of the weapon now pointed at him stopped him from asking any questions. Or moving. Or breathing.

“[Warm-cuddle plays-with-sticks, please do not get close to these criminals.]” The Karnakian soldier said, and the Jornissian Pirate’s hastily-updated internal translator attempted to hash out. The warm-cuddle wiggled from side to side, and used her – his? – extended finger to poke the armored side of the soldier.

“[I just feel bad knowing you’re doing this instead of [playing] with us.]”

The Karnakian soldier, for their credit, didn’t betray too much emotion – but that emotion was shared among everyone there: ‘Really? Really?’

“[I… am going to guard these prisoners until they can be moved into the brig.]” The soldier said, doing their best to keep their modulated voice level. “[We will …play later.]”

The warm-cuddle laughed. “[You – oh! It’s, sorry, it’s just a phrase. I mean more, I feel bad that you’re staring at these guys instead of doing something.]” It wiggled again – back and forth on it’s very tiny feet – as it looked at the pirates against the wall. “[You know I can take over for you-]”

“[That’s not necessary. Thank you.]” The soldier said, and the warm-cuddle lifted it’s arms in some unknown gesture.

“[All right, but don’t say I didn’t ask! I can be very intimidating, when I need to be!]”

No one said a word, and the warm-cuddle continued unabated. “[It’s just getting all this evidence to the ship is-]”

The Jornissian pirate sat up – a bit too quickly, as he found himself snout-to-muzzle with his guard’s weapon. “[I uh- sorry, but, did you say evidence?]”

The warm-cuddle wiggled it’s head up and down. “[Yeah! All of this is evidence now-]”

“[But that’s my heating pad…]” The Jornissian pirate began, before the muzzle pressed a bit too firmly against his jaw. The Jornissian raised his hands in a placative gesture as the warm-cuddle explained the process of gathering evidence, of dusting for “fingerprints” (whatever that meant) of making sure there’s no hidden compartments holding contraband (why would there be?), and on generally tearing everything apart just because they could. The pirate didn’t want to roll the ship any further than he already had, so he just made non-committal approving noises until the warm-cuddle wandered back off to their group.

A few long moments passed, the muzzle of the weapon not leaving his cheek. The Jornissian looked up at the soldier and, either through temporary idiocy or false bravado, asked a simple question.

“[Do they… always get into everything like that?]”

The soldier sagged visibly, the sharp edges of their body seeming to soften a bit.

“[You have no idea.]”

“[KNEEL.]”

“<But I don’t have any kne->” The Jornissian pirate – a different one, mind you – started to complain. She didn’t get to finish that sentence as SP09 rotated his torso at maximum velocity, slamming the barrel of his gun into the unrepentant’s chest. The female Jornissian wheezed hard, a sickening crack escaping with the air out of her lungs as she crumpled over in apparent unconsciousness.

And that’s just as good as deference.

“<O-oh, sorry Sri’itzrih. I-I’m not asking them to do this.>” Bleppy murmured, apologetically, as he was paraded through the corridors of his former employer. He had seen enough movies – real ones, not the warm-cuddle CGI ones made by fans – that he could identify an honor guard when he saw one. Never in a million years did he think he would be the honored one within such a guard, and never did he dare to hope that his guard would be warm-cuddles. Yet, there he was, slowly sliding his way down the hall as his tiny friends beat his coworkers into submission, looted their bodies, and his brother groaned with the heavy strain of his tiny friends’ ever-increasing war booty.

It was a bit of an esoteric feel, and Bleppy didn’t know how to process it all. He heard the announcements over the communications networks that his employer had surrendered unconditionally, that no one else was to be harmed, that arms were to be laid down and everyone was to ‘assume the position’, whatever that meant – and had hoped that the wanton destruction would stop, or at least slow down a little. Instead, the warm-cuddles around him seemed to pick up the pace, hauling more things out quicker, not taking the time to sort through the loot before tossing it on his brother’s back. Any time he voiced a complaint he was silenced – with kindness, attention, affection, and in one unfortunate case with a gift of a hastily-made necklace of teeth – and any time he asked for peace, he was ignored. There was now no longer an excuse; the mandatory update hit everyone’s translators, he was finally able to understand his new friends, he was finally able to communicate with his warm-cuddle, and yet… he was still dismissed.

So Bleppy walked along, head held high above his kneeling and bowing coworkers. He rolled his shoulders slightly under the weight of knitted together gold, silver and jewels as his warm-cuddle, New-hope, scrabbled along his back for purchase, every so often yelling something at one of his rescuers and directing his honor guard’s … zeal. It was an impossible feeling to place – almost an out-of-body experience, seeing everyone who used to look near him but not at him, or who would stare too long at his deformities, now not daring to lift their heads to look straight ahead – staring at his tail, at the dust on the ground. It was everything – the stolen goods, the beaten associates, his bowed brother – that weighed on his mind, and he didn’t notice when his honor guard was joined by another, and when they were joined with more still. He turned his carved figurine over in his hands as he slithered forward; it was simple, like him. Like who he was then and now, and he started to yearn for those easier days when he was abandoned in a hole, far from everyone else – when he wasn’t given so much attention that it hurt a part of him he didn’t know existed.

There was a dark kernel growing inside his heart, a deep realization that he didn’t know was truth or lie – if it was because of abandonment issues, or shutting himself out of the world, lying to himself in the small hours of the night, or just pretending that those parts of him didn’t and never would exist.

He was beginning to like the attention, and that scared him.

Bleppy was so preoccupied with his musing that he didn’t notice his warm-cuddle honor guard had stopped until he almost ran into them, the sudden-to-him stop jerking his torso back in surprise. He was able to regain balance, but Nate was tossed off of his back, hitting the floor with a loud pamf.

“[Whoooh. It’s ok! It’s ok buddy, you’re home now!]” Nate wheezed, rolling onto his side to get back up.

“<I’m… what?>” Bleppy asked, looking around for the first time. He stood in the back half of a ship he was not familiar with, and as he looked around it dawned on him that this was the ship that his warm-cuddle was from. Silently he looked around, head tilting to take in the full panorama – and he saw them. Dozens and dozens of warm-cuddles, all in different suits and machines, all in the midst of doing their daily jobs – in the middle of conversation, of packing and unpacking things, of cutting items up and patching bits and baubles together. He looked around and saw an entire world that he only fantasized about, and saw it in it’s own mundane beauty, unfiltered, raw. It felt like he was inhaling the entire time, a deep cool breath that filled him from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, and he clutched his figurine tightly to his chest as he turned in place, jaw hanging slightly open the entire time. Such a spectacle as a gilded Jornissian of his … physiology was not easy to ignore, and soon every single human in the rear cargo bay of The Perfect had stopped what they were doing, and had begun to stare.

A sudden wave of embarassment washed over Bleppy as quickly as the euphoria did, and he ducked his head, closing his eyes in a childlike reflex. He wanted to open them again – he really did – but for some reason he was unable to. So he stood there, frozen, as the silent judgment of his only coping mechanism – of the one thing that gave him hope and joy – washed over him. He would have stayed like that, paralyzed by fear and anxiety, if it weren’t for the fact that something was rubbing his nose.

Bleppy opened his eyes, and looked directly into the eyes of a new human. She – she had the soft, round face, so Bleppy assumed it was a she – was staring directly into his eyes, studying his face… but doing so with a smile. It wasn’t a cruel one, it was … gentle. Loving. Infatuated.

“[So this is why you wanted to start Outer Haven.]” The warm-cuddle murmured. Bleppy had no idea what she meant, but soon her hand was joined by another, and another – the humans slowly walking up to him and placing their hands on him, studying him, examining him – but with no malice. It was honesty. Curiosity. Perhaps even Kindness.

It was too much for him, and he began to cry.

The two men sat on the floor, backs against the wall. Although both were still in their respective combat suits, the helmets were off and a flask was shared between them.

“So.”

Lieutenant Ma passed the flask over to Nate, who took a swig. He didn’t cough – he wasn’t a little bitch, after all – but he did wonder if this was actual potable alcohol, or a poured out ‘requisitioned’ bottle of industrial alcohol that had a couple juniper berries tossed into it.

“So.” Nate replied, handing the flask back. “What happens now?”

Lt. Ma shrugged. “Outer Heaven was voted down by the brass-”

“Bah. Those fucks. They’ve made an enemy for life!” Nate said, raising his fist to the sky. He was joined by the Lieutenant, who in-between droughts agreed that everyone above him was a jackass and everyone below him was a fucking idiot. 

“Exactly!” Lt. Ma cried, offering the flask again. Nate took it, and took a light sip, as Lt. Ma continued. “But, he is technically a pirate, a co-conspirator, and an outlaw. His criminal record stretches decades, if not a couple hundred years, and none of that is anything we can overlook.”

Nate brooded silently as the two of them looked out across the deck. Bleppy was excitedly turning over human-sized tools, asking questions and generally being the star of the entire show.

“You know I’ll kill us all – he doesn’t deserve none of this shit.” Nate said, pointing a gloved finger at his savior. “He’s a good guy that fell in with a bad crowd.”

“You think that’ll work at a military court?” Lt. Ma asked, clasping his hands to his chest in a mocking way. “Oh, please, let him go – he didn’t know what he was doing, and he’s such a good boy, and he wants to become a contributing member to so-”

“Fuck off, man.” Nate sighed, taking a deeper drink of something that probably came with a couple warning labels. “I’m serious. I’ll go to bat for him, and his little shit brother… but mostly for him.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lt. Ma said, motioning with his hand for the flask. Nate placed it in his grabbing hand, and Lt. Ma swirled it around a bit as he talked. “Look. None of that is going to go away, but from what I can tell the Senate is going to let us mete out the punishment for this one – what with one of our own being involved. From what I can tell – and this is all hearsay, so don’t fucking hold me to this – we’re going to be brutal and merciful. Some of the worst people here are going to be flayed alive-”

“You mean get the book thrown at them?”

“No.” Lt. Ma said, taking a deep drink before exhaling. “I mean, literally. We want to send a message that we go hard and that we do not give a fuck. It’s apparently lost on everyone else, but we haven’t signed all those treaties and accords yet on the treatment of prisoners, so there are some very interesting loopholes we get to use. Flaying is a ‘cultural artifact’ that we are going to share with the wider galaxy… and then probably lose the chance to ever again.”

“But we’re hoping once is enough.”

“Yep.” Lt. Ma said, resting his forearms on his bent knees. He continued to talk, waving the flask about with his hand – it was almost empty, so there was no danger. “But remember, that’s for the worst – the actual babykillers that are in this mess. For everyone else, it’s going to probably be prison time.”

Nate stiffened. “You’re not sending that man into prison.”

“Aiyah, fucking civvies.” Lt. Ma looked at Nate with a not-entirely-sober-but-still-sober-enough-to-be-on-duty expression. “Let me finish?” He asked, hands open and eyebrows up. Nate sighed, resting the back of his head against the wall, looking up at the ceiling.

“Fine. What.”

“Well, we get to dictate people’s sentences, within wider galactic law. Most’ll get 40, 80 years here or there – a couple will get a couple hundred. Most lifers will be killed instead, so there’s that. But we’re all – and again, hearsay, got it?” Lt. Ma said, pointing his finger at Nate, who without looking waved his hand in dismissive agreement. “Thinking of giving him a lifetime of parole.”

Nate nodded, and kept his mouth shut through the silence. Lt. Ma waited a few moments before laughing, punching Nate in the arm playfully.

“Holy shit, you actually are going to let me finish! Fuck!” Lt. Ma grinned wide, forcefully tossing his flask to the side. “Alright, fuckdamn man. So he’s getting a lifetime of parole, but, get this – we’re going to have him doing his time in Sol.”

Nate never stopped staring at the ceiling, but a wide grin broke across his face. “You motherfucker – I love it.”

“Of course, he needs to do his training – he fails that, he’s out no matter what – but… we figure this is a way to prove we’re tough on terrorists.” Lt. Ma said, spreading his arms wide like a carnival barker drawing in a sucker from the street. “No one escapes the long arm of the law, after all.”

“So, alright. But what about-”

“[YOU.]”

Both men jumped at the actual roar, scrambling away from whatever it was that made such a horrible sound. Nate didn’t think, acting on instinct as he dove for cover behind some boxes – Lt. Ma whipping around to face the threat.  

“Oh! Oh, sir, it’s abso-putmethefuckdownrightnow-”

Nate turned around behind his box fort as he saw Lt. Ma bodily tossed out of the way, the soldier hitting the deck and rolling with the momentum. Before Ma could get up, before Nate could process what was happening, the cover he was kneeling behind suddenly disappeared, the gust of wind from it’s violent removal knocking him on his ass. From such a vantage point, he was able to see his doom.

“Oh. Hi Drongo.”

The Dorarizin male bared his teeth, his claws kneading the empty air around Nate’s head, as his hackles stood out as far as they could go. Drongo was haunched over, he was wide eyed, and he was livid. Nate knew certain death when he saw it, and the lizard brain part of him realized there was no escape – the predator was already here. With that being said… why worry?

“You look lovely today. Have you lost weight?”

Out of his peripheral vision he saw Lt. Ma standing still, his hands pressed together and pushed against his pursed lips as he watched a suicide unfold.

Nate gave off his best, most winningest smile. “Is that a new shirt? It looks gooooooo-”

Drongo reached forward and brought Nate against him in a deep, firm bear hug. “[YOU. You… bastard. Do you know how worried I’ve been? Do you know how much stress you’ve caused me?!]”

“MFMfmfmfmfm. Mnnngnnm, ddnmmnhf.” Nate responded, his arms mostly pinned to his sides as he was suffocated with concern.

“[I am taking you back to medbay and I am going to check your health and you are going to sit there and not get out of my sight for the next week, is that understood?]”

“Mmmmmf.” Nate said, the fight leaving his body.

“[Good. You little bastard.]” Drongo murmured, pressing his muzzle on the top of Nate’s head affectionately.

“[Also…]”

“Fffff?”

Drongo tilted Nate in his arms to whisper in his ear as he turned to walk back to his Medbay. “[I’m going to be giving you your shots. Individually. With the large needle. You little bastard.]”

Nate screamed – but his screams were muffled, first by the Dorarizin doctor’s arms, and then by the Medbay doors.

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They are Smol Stories

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 31: Human Negotiation Tactics

“Hey.”

SP03 twitched lightly in their suit as the unknown, unfamiliar voice broke into their chanting. As the voice was not joining in with the chanting, and was not an infidel who was being destroyed for the New World Order, it was promptly ignored.

“Hey! Listen!”

SP03 frowned, somehow harder than normal, as he continued his lockstep march down the hallway. Whatever the voice was, or wanted, it was not important. It was not blood. It was not reparations. There would be no ceasing, no end to the violence, until all things were right again, until-

There was a pip on SP03’s HUD. It started in the center of the screen and moved, slowly to the upper right. Some deep, ancient part of the pilot’s mind caught onto the simple moving oval, and his head moved with rapt attention. Closer… closer to the corner point, would it make it?! Would it–

The oval missed by just a few pixels, and SP03 cursed audibly. He slowed down his march, his comrades subconsciously matching his pace as he watched the pip go to the bottom left. Maybe this time, it woul-

It missed again?! He couldn’t murder with impunity anymore – not until the thing went in the corner!

SP03 stopped dead in his tracks and watched the oval icon continue it’s traversal across the screen.

“Hey!”

“Uh?” SP03 Grunted, looking around his HUD for the voice indicator icon. “Yes?”

“Oh.” Specialist Pierce sighed with relief, as behind him his entire chain of command was in mid-eruption of both controlled and uncontrolled outbursts. “Oh, thank God. The DVD Trick worked.”

“The what?” SP03 said, still staring intently at the oval pip that just missed the corner again damnit–

“It’s nothing – it’s a uh, focus trick some big brains thought of in testing a couple decades ago.” Specialist Pierce said, directing his feed to his superior’s terminals. “SP03, can you give us a status report?”

“Sure, sir. We’re moving towards the rendezvous point; LG is anchored outside of habitable areas, and would cause potential structural damage if removed. We verified it can’t be accessed from within, so we’re escorting our VIPs.” SP03 rattled off, matter-of-factly. “Current estimates from OnStarBoard Navigation says we should be 15 minutes out at most. Is our data not transmitting properly, sir?”

“It’s not that,” Specialist Pierce said, leaning into the mic. “-It’s the who-”

“What in the fuckdamn are you dustfoots chanting?!” Interrupted Captain Kirk, who had finally gained enough mental bandwidth to focus his entire attention on Kill Team Spite.

SP03 straightened up in his suit, the rest of his team now standing still as the air – and bodies – cooled around them. “Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.” Growled Kirk. “Explain yourselves – this is not behavior befitting a soldier of the UTF, let alone one of our elites during a multi-species operation. What the fuck are you thinking?”

“Sir. If you love what you do, you never work a day in your life.”

The silence that fell across the bridge at SP03’s response was tangible, settling over everyone like a thick, choking fog. Specialist Pierce’s mind rattled between ‘did he just say that?!’, ‘holy shit the balls on this man’ and ‘I mean, he’s right tho.’ – judging from the glances he took at his fellow crewmen, some variation of those thoughts were oscillating between everyone else’s mind as well. The silence stretched on for a few uncomfortable moments, before Admiral Hawkings cleared his throat.

“Far be it for me to meddle in the jobs of my crew, but. SP03 – are you fulfilling combat objectives?”

“Sir yes sir.” SP03 responded.

“And.” Admiral Hawkings leaned back in his chair, eyes cast upwards in thought. “Is everyone safe and accounted for?”

“Sir yes sir.” SP03 replied.

“Then please, keep the chanting to yourselves.” Admiral Hawkings stated, with a wry smile on his lips as he could hear the glee in SP03’s affirmative response. Hawkings looked down from the ceiling to Kirk, who was rubbing his jaw in frustration. “One last thing, soldier.”

“Sir?”

Admiral Hawkings – a man who straddled the line between warrior and politician – firmly leaned on that fine line to put as much steel as he could in his voice. “If you ever ignore orders again, or cut off your data feed when it’s not truly mission critical, you will be shot. Is that understood.”

“Y-yes sir.” SP03 responded.

“One last, last thing, before we let you loose again.” Admiral Hawkings said, warmth creeping back into his voice. “Can you enlighten us as to why and to whom you were chanting? That’s not a corps chant – at least, nothing I’ve ever heard.”

SP03 nodded. “Sir. It’s for him.”

“Him who?”

The combat suits that Spite were in were incredibly durable and powerful according to human standards, but were bulky and slow to move. SP03 began to traverse right, and his suit started to shuffle in place, slowly walking itself around in a circle. The camera view traversed from the carnage at the front, to the firing line beside him, to the VIP Nathaniel Callaway skittering along the wall like some deranged, puffy spider over to-

“Huh.”

Standing before SP03 – well, behind them, were a duo of Jornissians. The first one, who looked completely unimpressed, was saddled with a majority of the war booty – of still smoking personal effects, jewelry, valuable electronics and various bric-a-brac, stuffed into a giant bloody tarp that he was hoisting over his shoulder, making him look like an incredibly tired serpentine Santa Claus. His costume had no red trimmed with white; he was obviously a pirate combatant, but he was under a net, so apparently everyone was just ok with that.

The other one though.

The Jornissian was deformed, that much was obvious; Hawkings had never seen a Jornissian who looked like that, and didn’t even know it was possible. He looked rough, a young body weathered with old years’ worth of work, and he was clutching what seemed to be a crudely-made figurine of a posing human in his hands. Hawkings was able to glean through body language alone that this person before him was an outcast, uncomfortable with any form of attention, and very uncomfortable with what was going on around it. The IFF stated he was the “Emotional Support Animal” of the VIP.

He was draped in enough jewelry, gold, gems and fabrics to cosplay as an ancient Egyptian god.

“[Um. Please? Please stop?]” The Jornissian said, softly, as he held the figurine to his chest. “[You… you don’t have to – not like this.]”

“He is pure and I love him.” Someone on the bridge said, starting a ripple of conversation and speculation as SP03’s camera stayed fixed upon the object of affection… and the source of the impromptu murder-cult’s obsession. As the volume of conversation grew and swelled, Admiral Hawkings looked over across the table to his friend, Captain Kirk – who had his head in his hands, massaging his temples.

“Everyone’s getting written up. We’re all getting written up. I don’t want to go back to Naval Court.” Kirk kept mumbling, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

“Well Fuck.” Hawkings said, and for the second time everyone agreed with him.

The Jornissian paced – well, what counted for pacing for their species – across the small, cramped room. What once was a hub of activity and illicit ideas had turned into a last bastion for a select few, and those select few happened to be the remnants of the Body Politic.

“[Alright, alright alright alright alright-]”

“[That incessant prattling is not helping!]” snapped Bile, and Brains frowned. “[We’re dead, we’re all dead, and it’s your fault!]”

Brains recoiled, placing a hand over her chest. “[My fault?! I’m in charge of sales, you half-brained nitwit! Your team was the one who alerted the senate and brought the wrath of Oru’si upon us!]”

“[Please, both of you.]” Bones groaned, flat on his back as he stared at the rats nest of wires that criss-crossed the ceiling. “[We’ve gotten out of worse-]”

“[Worse?! The worst thing I’ve gotten you out of was a paternity record, you deadbeat!]” screeched Bile, his feathers molting in a gentle snowfall around his office. Once the shit hit the fan – I mean, the final shit, not all the other shit that’s been hitting the fan over the past week or so – the Body Politic had a choice to make: Stay together, or die alone. Everyone still alive chose the former, and the most equidistant office to every place on the rock was  the IT nook, where Bile made his magic happen.

Blood was MIA, and Back took the latter option – you see how she turned out.

So Bile’s office was invaded, the underlings ejected, the door welded shut and the panicking began behind closed doors, where it was relatively safe to do so. The only danger here would be from each other, and Bones mused whether or not he was the only one who brought weapons with him as the remainder of his management team began to bicker with him, with each other, and with anything within arm’s reach. The arguments kind of faded into background noise, and Bones smiled to himself that such anger could produce a zen moment.

He waited there, for minutes or hours – he couldn’t tell, as the carefully constructed organization that he and his people had built from nothing over the past few hundred years came crashing down in fire and death around him. His offshore retirement funds would probably still be there, if they weren’t traced and repatriated to his victims, but the fortune in physical goods that hadn’t been moved yet… that was forfeit for sure. Losing over half your wealth in a day… He wouldn’t go down as a mysterious benefactor of the youth, his fortune secret and his past unknown. He wouldn’t go down as a great philanthropist, after starting a large family on some backwater, building much needed (and family owned, of course) utilities and amenities to build up a planet. He wouldn’t even go out in a blaze of glory, those years of vip and vim long behind him. No.

He’d go out as a cautionary tale. Something mothers would sing to their hatchlings once they got too rebellious.

“[At least I’ll be remembered.]” Bones said, musing out loud as the argument around him died down.

“[Remember what?]” Brains spat, defensively curled in the corner of the office. “[You’ve been no help this entire time, and I have half a mind to connect to this fleet and turn you both in.]”

“[You cold-hearted station-hopping whore.]” Growled Bile, ducking down in an aggressive posture. “[I’ll kill you before you get the word out-]”

Bones blinked. “[Wait. Wait. The word out – wait. We still have time!]”

“[To commit suicide, yes.]” Bile mocked, staring at his colleague. “[But what, you have some master plan now?]”

Bones rolled over onto his feet, shaking his back out. “[Not a master plan, no – those seem to fail. However, Bile – you still have those recordings of the human, correct?]”

Bile looked at his terminal. “[I do. Illegal recordings might be a nice thing to sell for some after-prison money, but they’re going to search our personal data cache-]”

“[We might only have a few moments – there’s no guarantee, but we might as well try. Can you run a program to pull out all of the human’s voice lines?]” Bones said, standing up and shaking his legs back awake.

“[I think so, but… why?]” Bile replied, his hands a blur over inputs only he could see.

“[Do that, do that now, and open a channel to the senate fleet. We’re going to negotiate.]” Bones said, smiling a bit too wide for comfort.

“[Captain, we’re being hailed.]”

“[By the humans?]”

“[No, sir.]”

Captain Fierce-gale perked up and waved his assent to be patched through. Himself, the Admiral, as well as a dozen other operatives patched into the call, interest piqued at this 11-th hour missive. 

“[Attention Senate Fleet!]” Crowed a half-crazed looking Karnakian, staring unblinking into the camera with a single eye. “[We have the human! We are willing to negotiate!]”

Immediately, the tone shifted on the bridge of “The Last Word”, Captain Fierce-gale sending out silent requests for negotiators to present themselves immediately. As he was issuing silent orders, there was a sound played just off screen-

“Yamete, Jornii-san!”

Fierce-gale muted his voice, hailing the analysts on the bridge. Within a few moments the vocal fingerprint was digitally verified and sent back to his terminal; It was human, it was a male. Most likely still alive…

The Karnakian shook, eyes darting both on and off screen. “[Again! Cease your operations and begin negotiations, or we will harm the human!]”

Captain Fierce-gale re-opened his microphone. “[Greetings. I am Captain Fierce-Gale of the enforcement ship “The Last Word”. I have received and acknowledge your missive; to whom are we speaking with?]”

“[Bones! Give us your word we’ll stay alive – no, give us your word you’ll let us go, and we’ll never darken your or anyone else’s doors again!]” The Karnakian – Bones? Was it? – said, looking between the camera and something off-screen, head twitching between the two in an erratic, stressed way. “[Do it now! Now!]”

Another sound.

“Oro owo ohno oyo froyo-”

Fierce-gale was about to respond before… something pricked the back of his mind. Something was … off. The tone of voice from the first human outburst – no, not even just the tone of voice, but the words themselves, made no sense when compared to the second outburst. The first, loud and aggressive; the second, almost playful. Someone who was being held at knife-point, someone whose life was in danger, didn’t sound like that. It didn’t make sense.

“[Please hold.]”

“[Please what-]” Bones said, as the line was muted.

Fierce-gale knew enough when it came to hostage situations; stall for time, wait for the professionals to get there, let them negotiate and go with their suggestions – this is why he immediately called for them, after all. But this… Captain Fierce-gale pinged his Human colleagues. Immediately the call went through, and was apparently auto-accepted; there was a hum of activity on the bridge of the Human ship, and Fierce-gale let a small smile spread across his features as the smaller creatures moved about with such determination, doing their best in this new situation that the universe had thrown them into.

It was admirable, if you looked at it; for hundreds of years straight, Humanity had done nothing but adapt, overcome, surv-

“Alright, it’s settled.” Admiral Hawkings said to a group of people off-screen. “That one will be an honorary vice-captain. His lackey will get no title. Agreed?”

“[Admiral?]”

Admiral Hawkings inhaled deeply, the genuine smile on his face replaced with something much more professional as he looked down at his open terminal. “Ah, my apologies. Good morning, Captian. We won’t have a crew manif-”

Captain Fierce-Gale leaned forward in his seat. “[Sir, forgive me, but I’m currently in talks with what we assume is the Pirate leadership. Is the human prisoner accounted for?]”

Admiral Hawkings paused in mid comment, looking at something off-screen. “Yes. Yes I am very certain our VIP is accounted for. Patch me in, please.”

The technicians listening into the conversation did the work without being ordered, as the two-way call suddenly became a three-way.

“[-SAID I WOULD KILL THIS HUMAN IF YOU DON’T MEET OUR DEMANDS!]” Bones roared into the camera, almost dancing from side to side. “[WILL YOU NEGOTIATE?!]”

Fierce-Gale raised his hand in a pacifying gesture. “[Bones, I have brought in the lead for this operation, who is the person you need to negotiate with. His name is-]”

“Admiral Hawkings, and we don’t negotiate with terrorists.” The Admiral stated, matter-of-factly, as he sipped his ice-cold cup of coffee. “Go ahead and rip his guts out.”

Bones paused in the middle of his stress-dance, looking at the camera before bodily turning off-screen, waving his arm a bit. Immediately human noises were pumped into the mic, but they were all nonsensical babble – cries of joy and surprise and pain and a couple other emotions that we can’t really talk about in public. Hawkings nodded to himself as the noise came and went, and was replaced with an earnest silence as the Karnakian leaned towards the camera.

“[See?! He’s alive and-]”

“And you don’t have a translator, so the only reason you can understand me is because of our software.” Admiral Hawkings said with a deep sigh. “So you’ve just pumped babble at us and claimed to have a body. I’m calling your bluff; kill him. Right now.”

Bones looked at the camera, before looking off screen. “[Please hold.]”

“Please what-”

The pirate’s screen cut to black, and the two military leaders looked at each other with inscrutable expressions. The dead air lasted for a few moments before the feed was brought back to life, a much calmer – and different – Karnakian sitting before the camera.

“[Hello. My name is Bile. We do not have your human, as you know. Instead, a new negotiation!]” The xenos lifted up a bundle of triggers, each one aglow and flashing to some unknown pulse. “[If you do not negotiate with us, we will release the tethers to this system; not only will these rocks separate kinetically, but most of the interior will be exposed to the void!]”

There was another pause, before Admiral Hawkings shrugged. “Go ahead. Do it. I fucking dare you.”

“[I… I’m sorry?]” Bile said, lowering his hand slightly. “[I’m… threatening to kill everyone. One of our asteroids could even slam into your ship, killing your crew-]”

“[Admiral, if I may? Our negotiators are ready to help diffuse tensions.]” Captain Fierce-Gale interrupted, bowing his head slightly. “[I think this could be a way to end the bloodshed and-]”

“We. Do not. Negotiate. With Terrorists.” Admiral Hawkings stated with cold certainty. “And if you need some proof, let us help. Captain, order the FCs to fire at an appropriate target.”

“[Wait, wait-]” Both Bile and Fierce-Gale pleaded, almost in unison, as Captain Kirk barked orders to the lieutenant under him, who directed Fire Control Team Alpha to task. FC Alpha, always ready, trained their weapons systems at a tether anchor and let loose a volley of dumb, unguided torpedoes to the one part of the cluster that had no friendly IFFs nearby. Within a few moments fire bloomed across everyone’s screen – save for Bile’s, whose office was bathed in alarms and warning lights. As the constellation of rocks began to sway, and the debris cloud silently expanded through the operating theater, Admiral Hawkings lifted his mug and held it out to the side. Without breaking eye contact with either of the xenos he waited for a few moments, before an aide refilled it with piping hot caffeinated slag. He brought the mug back to his lips and took a sip, the bitter lowest-bid coffee sandpapering his tastebuds and esophagus away as it bubbled down into his core.

With a light tak he placed his mug back on the table. “Do I now make myself clear?”

“[S-sir you do, but please, can you calm down?]” Captain Fierce-Gale exclaimed, scratching his neck to work out his tension. “[Let us help now?!]”

Admiral Hawkings sighed. “Alright. But I’ll say this – Bile, was it? I beg you, with tears in my eyes – do not fuck with us, because we will kill everyone here.”

The Karnakian full-body nodded, what remained of his plumage fanning out and back in rapid assent, as surrender negotiations finally began.

 

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 30: Murdercults!

In most movies whenever there’s a military anything going on, the camera usually pans around a war room, all the top brass wearing concerned or thoughtful expressions. Suddenly, data starts pouring in on futuristic blue screens (of course they’re blue cause they’re the good guys)and they start making snap judgments in the middle of combat that the boots on the ground are able to adapt to at the drop of a hat. This, in true human-movie fashion, involves a lot of explosions and people running around dramatically.

However, there’s a reason why that’s in movies and not in real life; at the end of the day, the amount of information coming into a situation room and going out of a situation room is far too much to build a coherent, constantly adapting plan to. You can have cameras pointed at everything, AI splicing the data in real time, machine learning running billions of scenarios per second – but if all that data slams into you at once while you’re in a firefight, it’s completely ignored by the monkey brain.

Monkey brain is busy throwing spicy rocks. Come back later.

This is why autonomy is key: You give your soldiers a goal, and you let them figure out how to best do it; they are the only ones who can adjust to situations on the ground, so let them do it – even if it leads to a murder cult.

…we’ll get to that.

The top brass of Joint Task Force “Old Yeller” had given their kill teams objectives, and unless the people closer to the problem – the ones monitoring individual biometrics, situational conditions, real-time mapping of the combat theater – said anything, then the administration would turn it’s attention to other things.

Such as politely, but firmly, refusing aid.

“[Ssssssssso, exactly how many deaths are you at right now?]” Captain Fierce-gale asked, for the 5th time, as he attempted to not fidget in his chair.

“I assure you, Captain, that we are still operating efficiently.” Admiral Hawkings replied, plastering a professionally polite neutral smile on his face. “And once we are not, we will ask for your help – but I ask you to let my people do their jobs.”

Captain Fierce-gale frowned slightly, motioning to someone off-screen. “[I’m not insinuating they can’t! Just, we have plenty of ways to assist and observe, and I think it would be a good idea to co-operate in a joint task force-]”

“And I appreciate, and duly note, the suggestion and your concern.” Admiral Hawkings responded, sighing internally. “However, we have the lead in this operation and so far have a handle on things. As data comes in, we will keep you updated-”

“[With all due respect, then please provide us with a personnel report, Admiral.]” Captain Fierce-gale stated, again, as he pulled up something to look at on his terminal. “[We are just as interested in gathering data as you are, and you are the lead – we’ll respect that.]”

Admiral Hawkings closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting himself have this brief respite as the circular conversation made another revolution. Once you achieved a certain level of promotion, you no longer bothered yourself completely with your actual job, and instead straddled the line between warrior and politician. Hawkings was chosen not only because he was a capable fleet admiral, but because he had the standing of a senator and the patience of a saint – but even he had his limits. As he opened his eyes and looked through the holographic screen to the Captain of his flagship, Kirk, he let his mask slip. There was a man who was making sure orbital trajectory maintained course, that our drones were sweeping the skies, that all hands were at their stations and things were working – and Hawkings was just-

“[Sir, I don’t mean to be a snag in your hair-]”

“Then please, Captain, respect my authority and let my men do their work.”

The two men stared at each other for a few moments, before Captain Fierce-gale remembered himself. “[Of course. My Apologies, sir.]”

“No harm, no foul.” Admiral Hawkings said, his professional half-smile returning. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

Admiral Hawkings didn’t pay attention to whatever half-authentic signoff the Dorarizin gave him; he was on mute before the call was terminated. “Please please please just tell me something that I can use to occupy my mind with.”

“Well. If you’re a ‘jr’ or have a number behind your name, your mother definitely moaned your name during sex.” Captain Kirk said, doing his best to hide a growing smile by turning away in his chair. “Will that do, sir?”

“John I’ll throw you out the airlock with me, I’m serious.” Admiral Hawkings said, half-chuckling through the empty threat. He leaned over the shared digitized table, pointing an accusatory finger at his colleague and friend. “Now, for real. Give me a situation update, captain.”

Captain Kirk turned his chair to face his superior officer, professionalism taking over. “Sir. Both fridges are accounted for; Kings of Eternity have deposited theirs, marked “Kenmore”, back on the landing craft and our people are cracking it now. The data from Kenmore will be uploaded in the next hour, and starting to parse it might take double that – but that can happen in transit. The remains of the host ship are totally under our control; we have an effective beachhead there if necessary. Kings of Eternity also established contact with one of our missing host crew, named “Drongo”, and has secured the medbay.”

Admiral Hawkings took a sip of his cooled coffee, nodding slightly.

“Bloody Tears has been in combat almost since their landing; every single one of their suits has damage, but we’re only reading one KIA and two lightly wounded. No terminus decrees have been used as of yet; we’ve detected no spike in radiation and no suit has sent us their suicide code. As of… roughly 5 minutes ago, Bloody Tears finally met up with the rest of the missing host crew, who have armed themselves-”

“Well that’s certainly something.” Hawkings mused, placing his cup down on the table with an audible tak. “What do we know about the crew?”

“Official reports are what they are. Our analysts have pointed out that every single one of them is holding a weapon with practiced ease, and they seem to know how to use them; that’s not counting the small unit tactics or the EM warfare that one or two of them are up to – here, named “Licorice”.” Captain Kirk sent a static image of a Jornissian messing with a rat’s nest of terminals and wiring that he was carting around in a duffel bag. “Is diffusing IFF readings to our network, which is why we’re able to know what we know now… and that’s a very unique skill to have.”

Admiral Hawkings let out a low whistle. “I’ll say. You think we know our hosts are more than what they seem?”

“Probably.” Kirk said, shrugging lightly. “To be honest, sir, you know how it is – what they don’t tell us would fill a library; probably a backroom deal of some sort at some point. Still, we’re writing up a report as Bloody Tears adds to their fighting force. Current directive, now that there are wounded and dead, is to reconvene at the host ship’s medbay for triage and evac.”

“Good. We had three teams, I thought.”

Captain Kirk nodded, scrolling on his tablet. “Yes sir. Final team is Spite, who is also facing combat. Multiple wounded – four, as the data refreshes – but no deaths, so they’re pressing ahead. They are located at this smaller cluster of asteroids – here-” as he spoke, Captain Kirk shared the relevant information to his Admiral, a section of the combat theater map highlighted in yellow. “-where our final Fridge, “LG” is, along with our VIP Nathaniel Callaway.”

“So far so good. Do we have concerns about escorting the VIP out?” Admiral Hawkings said, looking over the map with curiosity.

Captain Kirk sighed. “That’s… the thing. Apparently the asteroids are too dense for real-time updates, so there’s a lot of pinging and lag-”

“Wait.” Admiral Hawkings interrupted. “How the hell do we not have real-time updates? Aren’t the rest of the teams sending us information in real time through the same asteroids?”

“I. Yes sir.” Captain Kirk responded. “Our thoughts were some lingering EM interference at this point.”

Hawkings furrowed his brow. “I don’t ride the lightning, but I think I know bullshit when I hear it. We have total EM dominance; they can’t play tetris without us seeing it and scrambling their devices. How the hell is there lag, with the VIP team?”

Captain Kirk wordlessly tapped a few indicators on his tablet, and the screen and face of Specialist Pierce was shared among the leadership team.

“Specialist Pierce.” Kirk said, and the man sat up a bit more straight.

“Aye, Captain.”

“Please explain why we don’t have real-time data for Team Spite.” Captain Kirk ordered, and Specialist Pierce inhaled deeply.

“Aye, Captain. As per standing orders, we are not to interfere during an active firefight with data requests that are non-mission critical. Both I, and Kill Team Spite has shut off their real-time biometric and suit data, includ-”

“I’m sorry, what?” Captain Kirk said, the volume of his outburst rippling through the bridge, silencing a dozen other soft conversations in one fell swoop. “Specialist Pierce, it sounds like you have let the team that is escorting our VIP go in blind.”

“No, sir. I advised against it, but-”

“Why did you not immediately alert your commanding officer, Specialist Pierce?” Captain Kirk professionally growled, as Admiral Hawkings looked on with a stone-faced expression.

‘At best, reprimand.’ Admiral Hawkings thought. ‘At worst, court marshal.’

Specialist Pierce cleared his throat, nervousness thick in his voice. “Sir. I believe that we are experiencing a … Vu-ja-de.”

“Son, you are going to give us a real time update, and then you are going to be relieved of your duty.” Captain Kirk ordered. “Now what the hell are you talking about?”

“A, uh, situation that has never happened before. Vu-ja-de. I… let me override their locks to provide you with the information you requested, sir, though I do not know if our broadcast would be intercepted.”

Captain Kirk did his best not to roar, but he was damn near close. “If you don’t give me that information in the next 5 seconds, Specialist, I will ma-”

Kirk never finished that sentence. Broadcast to his and the Admiral’s screen were multiple overlapping camera angles. Kill Team Spite was marching down the hallway in almost lockstep, killing anything before them that moved. This… was to be expected, and commended; the R&D boys back home would have a field day with this real-life combat data. However, it wasn’t the gore on the screen or the violence being inflicted upon fellow sapients that cut Captain Kirk’s rage short.

It was all the chanting.

“WE FEAR NOT.” The Kill Team Bellowed, firing blindly into a side room.

“[excuse me please-]” a quiet voice – the AI patterned it as a “Jornissian” – insisted, and was ignored.

“OUR MORTALITY.” Two dead, and the VIP scrambling over the kill team to loot the bodies.

“[-please stop-]” the same voice asked, to anyone who would listen.

“WE SERVE TO THE BEST OF OUR ABILITY.” A door opened, and before the Karnakian could react it was impacted with a 40mm grenade from point blank range, stoving in it’s skull.

“[-oh no-]”

“WE GIVE OUR LIVES TO OUR MASTER.”

“They do what.” Admiral Hawkings asked, deadpan, as his table was crowded around with curious underlings.

“WE VOW TO SLAY HIS ENEMIES.” Kill Team Spite roared in their suits, their microphones resonating with the pure emotion, the rage behind the chant, before it started all over again.

“Sir. I… Spite is fulfilling their duty… and I believe they’re AWOL.” Specialist Pierce said, tapping his console. “Lt. Daniel, the pilot, has also vacated his post. From the last images I was able to capture, he was running around with what looked like a gas mask and a Luger. We didn’t even issue him one.”

Specialist Pierce wasn’t answered in the awkward silence that stretched out as Kill Team Spite repeated their chant, massacring another half-dozen non-combatants. All eyes were fixed on the team’s feed with rapt attention, as the highly trained, highly skilled and well equipped best-of-the-best human soldiers absolutely lost their shit.

“Fuck.” Admiral Hawkings stated, and everyone agreed.

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