Category: They are Smol

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 29: Chess Pieces

Kill Team Spite blocked the corridor with their bodies, and standing ramrod straight before an unsuspecting door behind the body-shield wall of their brethren. It was the fourth stop down the long hallway, and those who were innocent – or scared witless – had long since departed for greener pastures as the shooting drew closer. For Kill Team Spite it was freeing, in a way, to watch people flee before them; it meant the only people left were the die-hard believers… that the ones who were left were the guilty.

“CHECK THE RECORDS.” barked, and Nate pulled up a stolen copy of Bleppy’s diary on his tablet, scrolling with mad purpose as his computer auto-translated the text in real time.

“Sinsinsinsins-” Nate murmured, before stopping his doomscrolling. “THIS KARNAKIAN PERMANENTLY BORROWED A SPLEEDILYSPOOTCH!”

“UNACCEPTABLE.” roared, his breaching saw spinning to aggressive life as he began to cut into the unsuspecting pirate’s door. The initial cut was a small triangle, far too small for entry but just large enough to fire a few impact grenades indiscriminately into the room. After the screaming died down, the saw kicked back to life, and a proper hole was cut into the door to allow entry.

As the kill team began aggressively righting wrongs and collecting war trophies, Bleppy sighed, watching his muses a few meters in front of him do very un-warmcuddlelike things.

“[What’s wrong, brother?]”

“[These past few days… Hrrs-tssk’ I don’t know what’s going on anymore.]” Bleppy said, watching the private life of one of his neighbors – who, granted, had taken advantage of him a few times – was pulled out into the corridor and sifted like sand. “[I thought warmcuddles were, I don’t know, a little less-]”

“[Vicious? Bloodthirsty? Suicidal?]”

“[-Angry.]” Bleppy continued, the offending item (and some other additional high-value things) tossed into Nate’s arms. After being sufficiently laden down, the human waddled his way over to Bleppy and held his burdened arms up, offering the reparations to the Jornissian. For the fourth time that day Bleppy tried to calm down his friend, and for the fourth time Nate responded with a howl that was echoed by the rest of the Kill Team. The booty was tossed onto a tarp, and with a grunt Hrrs-tssk’ shouldered the additional weight.

“[You see what I mean?]” Bleppy said, watching the warmcuddle he called New-Hope sprint down the corridor to jump onto one of the warrior’s backs, the group stomping their way down the hall to the next room. “[They’re just so… I was hoping they were untouched. That there was a people out in the universe that didn’t know pain, or sorrow on the scale that we do – that we could guard something pure, and keep it so. I… I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel about this. It’s finding out that the people you believed in are just like you, or even worse.]”

Hrrs-tssk’ slithered up next to his brother, and cleared his throat. Hrrs-tssk’, aka. “The Emotional Support Animal’s Emergency Stand In (vocation vacation intern)” looked flatly at his brother through a net that didn’t even cover his entire body, nor actually stopped his freedom of movement – it was, as the warmcuddle who launched it at him said in broken, robotic Tr’sitki, about “sending a message”. That message was apparently “we don’t have handcuffs large enough or strong enough to detain you, so please play along or we’ll kill you too.”

Great message. Hrrs-tssk’ got it almost immediately.

And so, Hrrs-tssk’ found himself hauling most of his brother’s personal effects, his entire warmcuddle shrine, and now roughly another 30-40kg of crap that the warmcuddles decided was important enough to take with them. The exhausted look that he sent to Bleppy caused the shy brother to turn away, mixed emotions swimming across his face.

“[… at least we’re still alive?]” Bleppy ventured, and was met with grunt from his sibling.

“[Fair. Do you know why they’re doing this? Do all warmcuddles just… hoard things, or is this a cultural fighting deal?]” Hrrs-tssk’ asked, idly watching as the warmcuddles stopped at yet another door and found some reason to break in. “[I’m starting to actually believe the whole ‘nesting arrangement’ shedskin that you said earlier.]”

“[It is not shedskin, they are-]” Bleppy was interrupted with the sounds of weapons fire – and the sounds of returning gunfire. The two siblings watched as brilliant light and sound slammed into the living wall, the humans standing still and eating the damage to their bodies as micro-missiles, repeating 1-gauge cannons, impact chemical grenades and other horrible things were sent downrange. For a brief moment Hrrs-tssk’ thought he saw Back, somewhere in the firestorm that was engulfing the hallway, but it was too fleeting to make sure… and in a few seconds, it didn’t matter.

“[Well that was certainly something.]” Hrrs-tssk’ said softly, as he watched the warmcuddles perform what he assumed was triage, or something like it. “[Is that New-hope on the groun-Stk’shzsk wait!]”

Bleppy darted forward as his attention was drawn to the smoking shoulder and arm of his new friend. Swiftly he slid forward, body parallel to the ground as he scooped the warmcuddle – his warmcuddle, off of the cooling iron ground. Before a word could pass by his lips, his forhead was met with a soft but firm paff of a gloved palm slapping against it repeatedly.

“[Don’t do that, new-hope!]”

“THE HERETIC’S WEAPONS ARE NO MATCH FOR ME.” Nate howled in Bleppy’s arms, continuing to headpat his bestest and most pure friend as the cooling material of his suit fused his left arm out at an awkward angle.

“[I don’t know what you’re saying but you are not to be at the front! None of you are – have you tried talking to these people?! They’d surrender – I know they would!]” Bleppy cried out, hugging Nate a little too tightly as he attempted to appeal to the warmcuddles’ more noble side.

The group remained silent, before one of the half-melted suits turned – waist traversal gears sparking concerningly – and fired a single round down the hallway.

Bleppy scrunched up his nose. “[I know you know what I’m saying. Speaking of…]” He tilted his head to look deep into Nate’s helmeted face. “[Exactly why are you breaking into people’s rooms? It’s not like they’re figh-]” Bleppy’s eyes focued on a curious reflection in Nate’s helmet before darting to the offending tablet, and froze as it’s meaning became known to him.

“[M-my diary?! YOU’RE READING MY DIARY-]”

“I’m out! Reloading!” Roared over the din of weaponsfire, stepping backwards – and taking a few kinetic rounds to the chest – as took his place in the firing line. The exodus from the ladies’ room was going swimmingly until Kill Team Bloody Tears found themselves in a gymnasium of some sort.

A barricaded, defended gymnasium. For whatever reason a majority of the blockades were pointing away from their point of entry, and Bloody Tears didn’t ask any questions when the came across the group of pirates in mid-setup.

They just opened fire.

“Seven- SEVEN. To your RIGHT, ONE FOUR ZERO.” Barked as his squadmate turned, taking a glancing blow from a directed energy weapon and responding in kind with a volley of grenades. The doors to the other side of the gymnasium opened up, fire pouring out from there as well onto the humans position. In the confusion and cacophony of battle there are few times to stop and collect your wits; you figure out the threat nearest to you, neutralize it, and move forward to the next one.

“Missiles dry!” yelled, his missile panel popping free to shed unnecessary weight. “Rock’em-Sock’em if we don’t unfuck this quick!”

“Working on it, fuckface!” replied, moving forward to take #05BT’s place on the semicircle firing line. To the pirate’s credit they weren’t stupid; concentrated and focused fire had already downed , and the only reason the team had gained a foothold in the room to begin with was by using their teammate’s body as a shield wall to push forwards. Death was to be expected, and mourning could happen later; vengeance was now. As each enemy was cut down the total damage dropped as well – until Bloody Tears was fighting a game of cat-and-mouse with enemies who moved faster than sight and dodged in and out of cover. Whatever fire was trying to pour from the other doorway was irrelevant; Bloody Tears wouldn’t let anyone peek their head out or get a breather.

People die in doorways. The goal was to make sure it was the other guy, and not you.

“I don’t know what the fuck that is over there, but I’m burning him out!” crowed, white phosphorous mortars firing indiscriminately into a stacked pile of goods. The Dorarizin who was hiding behind it made it two steps out before being ventilated, his body slamming against the wall with the force of the rounds impacting his torso.

“Keep eyes on that door! Push Ten up! Spread out and take cover!” ordered, and his team hustled.

“[Alright, so that’s new.]” Licorice muttered as he rolled another pocket drone camera onto the ground. The crew of The Perfect, now under The New Religion(tm) had waged a very impressive and quick war against their captors; superior arms, armor and tactics had made their push towards Nate frighteningly efficient. The Perfect’s crew weren’t as bloodthirsty as some others who were on the station; surrendering meant you were safe, and a majority of people were boarding themselves up in rooms and closets anyway. Those who fought back were true believers, and paid the penalty with violence and bloodshed.

But this. This was new. Licorice used the small drone’s camera to gather as much information as possible, before an incredibly large kinetic shell slammed into the device, carving a groove out of the iron floor of the doorway and sending shrapnel bouncing around the walls. The gnarled metal bits hurt as they embedded into his skin, but Licorice pushed that pain out of his mind.

He needed data. They all needed data.

“[Special forces?]” Pool Noodle said, sliding atop her colleague to get into a firing position. “[Outlaws have no rights, and I’ve been wanting to try this sweetheat out on the highest setting-]”

Licorice grunted at the unwelcome new weight. “[I can’t say. Captain, I’m sending everyone some information – check devices real quick.]”

Everyone who wasn’t holding an angle, performing triage or managing prisoners checked their devices; a squat, round, metallic war machine with glowing red eyes stared back at them with palpable hatred.

“[What in the soundless night is that? It looks… pissed.]” Lilybean murmured, the exhausted Dorarizin wiping the blood from her forearms as she sat down against the “safe” part of the wall. She was soon joined by her own fireteam, Tiki, Toko and the incredibly out of his depth P“pacheep following in tow.

“[It looks topheavy; drones? I could probably blow out the legs-]” Lilybean mused, her group beginning to discuss options as Licorice rolled another ball-like drone before the doorway, and watching it get shot within a few seconds.

“[That reaction time doesn’t scream automated system to me.]” Licorice said. “[That looks manual, but really odd.]”

Tiki thought for a moment as her trusty steed swayed under her weight. “[I wonder if-]”

“IDENTIFY YOURSELVES.” A robotic voice boomed from the gymnasium, and The Perfect’s crew froze.

“[No way, that’s a human warrior?!]” Lilybean cried out, looking at the slow-motion recording once more with renewed interest. “[That makes sense, though! Smaller size, you can put in more ordinance within the same dimensions! Ah! And each suit is an encapsulated – oh wow, that’s impressive. Alright!]”

“[Well, while Lilybean fawns over the killing machine, does anyone else have any ideas? You so much as poke your head out there, you’re going to get it blown away.]” Licorice asked, rummaging around in his bag for another drone. “[They’re coming towards us anyway, so the sooner the better I think.]”

“[How about announcing our intentions and then … well, someone takes the plunge?]” Toko ventured, smoothing down his faux robes. “[I think I can manage to talk them down.]”

“WE WILL NOT STOP. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.” The same voice bellowed, sounding much nearer than before, the whining of gears and the stomping of metal-on-metal getting louder as the sounds and echoes of battle died off.

Pool Noodle sighed, lowering her weapon as she continued to cover the door. “[We need a message to let them know that this isn’t a fake surrender, and we really don’t mean them any harm. Any ideas before we fulfill our oaths and get blue-on-blue’d?]”

“SURRENDER NOW OR PREPARE TO FIGHT.”

Toko, to his credit, would go down to his dying day many centuries hence vehemetly denying that he watched human childrens’ shows. A storied and venerated Karnakian such as himself most certainly didn’t binge the vintage shows, and he absolutely, positively did not become a fan of any of them, if he did happen to catch an episode from time to time! It was a denial that only grew louder as the years grew longer, and the only incessant voice who would remind him of his fateful, saving slip would be that of his younger twin sister. But whatever the reason, whatever synapses connected in that time of stress and need, didn’t matter. Toko opened his mouth, and crowed as loudly as he could-

“[MEOWTH! THAT’S RIGHT!]”

Silence. There was a beat, a pause in seemingly the entire world itself. Toko stared straight ahead, unblinking, as his coworkers and crew turned as one to stare at him, unasked questions and comments hot on their lips and faces. He ignored them all, looking ahead stoically into the middle distance as the sound of the warmachines on the other end of the room ground to a halt.

“ARE. ARE YOU SERIOUS. REALLY.”

Licorice cleared his throat, and yelled out while maintaining cover. “[We are the sovereign crew of The Perfect, acting in interested self-preservation and self-defense under Senate Articles IV and VII of the Human Integration-]”

“YEAH YEAH. BUT REALLY? REALLY? WHO’S THE WEEABOO?”

Toko did nothing, but let out a soft two-toned whistle.

Have you ever seen a killing machine, a thing meant and designed only for war, thrown completely out of it’s depth? Like an Abrams tank doing milk deliveries, or a Predator drone sending Christmas presents to Pakistani children’s hospitals?

“Sir, Sir. Please, Sir.”

This was one of those situations. Kill Team Kings of Eternity had split up, and according to the Odds of the team the first fridge was secured, being cut out, and returned to the dropship. Evens, however…

“[I will not calm down! I’m not going to have – to have children fight on my behalf! Where are your parents – do they know what you’re up to?!]”

The heat signatures turned out to be the medical wing of what was left of The Perfect, and after securing the pirate prisoners who were being treated, Kill Team Kings of Eternity verified the biometric information of one Drz’grn-of-Arhref – also known as “Drongo”. Seeing as how this person was (1) a non-combatant and (2) on The List, it would make sense to leave a token guard and continue on deeper into the facility. Unfortunately, Drongo had long since passed the point of frustration, and the combination of being overworked, overstressed, overworried, out-of-the-loop and overprotective of his smaller charge was too much to bear.

In those cases, people – be they Dorarizin or Human – fell back on instinct. And a male Dorarizin… well, fatherly instincts are strong.

“Sir, I’m fifty years old-”

“[That is my point exactly!]” Drongo huffed, his grip on #04KOE’s arm tightening as he tugged on the human mech to position him inside the sick bay, where it was safe. “[I’ve taken care of your kind before, and I know how fragile you are, and I am not going to lose anyone else! Now you are going to sit here and you are going to eat dinner because I am not going to hav-]”

“Sir, please. I will restrain y-” didn’t get to finish that thought as Drongo pulled back on his arm, sweeping his leg and flipping the small battle-suit on it’s back. The rest of the Evens saw this, and stared unblinking at the frantic Dorarizin as he stood over their teammate and admonished him for staying out past curfew, hanging out with ‘those hoodlums’, and generally worrying his parents sick. was unable to use his hydraulic skids to right himself, and wobbled on his back like an overturned turtle as he was emotionally attacked and physically pulled into the sickbay.

“I mean.” said, turning to his half of the team. “That’s one guard down. Any other volunteers?”

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 28: Get your Priorities in order

It was called The Battle Bus.

Everyone hated the name. I don’t mean “only those who designed on the Kinetic Mid-Impact Boarding Platform Mk.IV”, I don’t mean the engineers and mechanics who kept it up – I mean, everyone hated it, including the soldiers on it and the commanding officers who know of the colloquial name. Everyone hated the name, and of course since this was the military and the militarys’ sole goal is to hurt as many people as possible, the name stuck. Legend says the soldier who came up with the name is still trying to mop up all the water on Ganymede.

It didn’t look anything like a bus, of course. Long like a torpedo with a tunnel-boring-machine nose and far too many rockets on the back, it was utilitarian in the way that only the lowest possible bidder could create. There were no portholes, the only lights it had were guidance lights for the pilot, and it had nothing outside of gyrojets and flush vents to steer it in any appreciable way. The only way in was also the only way out, and as it disengaged from the mothership and fired all thrusters to full… well. It was like a bullet; once fired, it went until it stopped.

So, the UTF Military, in time honored tradition, allowed the pilots to name their Battle Busses something to hopefully inspire hope and strength in their men – or fear and terror in the enemy. With that being said, the first Battle Bus, Speed, hit the remainder of the hull of The Perfect, slowing far below 50mph. Internal gyroscopes recorded the hit and fed data to the ship’s computers, who spun the TBM drill bit to speeds only possible in the vacuum of space. Much to the delight of everyone involved (save for the pirates) the machine sandpapered the hull before catching, it’s reinforced teeth digging into the relatively soft wonder-metal that the alien ship’s hull was made out of – it’s designers not assuming in a million years that they would have to contend with a rocket powered earth-boring machine in space.

It dug, and dug, hard outer metals yielding and giving way to vacuous compartments and soft, inner material. Speed dug into The Perfect until it was relatively certain to be in deep enough that discharging the crew wouldn’t result in spacing them, and immediately fired all it’s gyro-jets on at once. This accomplished the dual goal of removing any explosive propellant in the vehicle, and spot-welded the damn thing in place.

Like a deranged lamprey.

The TBM nosecone began to yawn open inside the guts of the ship – causing more structural damage because fuck whoever was on the other side – and slowing down the rotating jaws. When they had finally ground to a halt, the first kill team “Kings of Eternity” began disembarking. Red eyes glinted through the flickering light as the last remaining internal systems aboard the butchered ship failed to reroute power and atmosphere in it’s death throes.

It didn’t matter. The Kings of Eternity could see. They could breathe. They could fight.

Ponderously heavy steps slammed down on the whining metal floor, the echo of implied dominance reverberating unquestioned throughout the hallway. The human military – the UTF – knew that they would never win in a fair fight with any xenos species; they’re too quick, too strong, too powerful. Their entire battle philosophy then boiled down to electronic warfare, long-range space dominance, and emotional blackmail; face-to-face or hand-to-hand combat would be a last, desperate measure. However, it was still a measure that had to be taken, from time to time, and so a plan had to be made.

Electronic umbilical cords stretched from open metal holding cages before snapping off, the jolt of the internal systems switching to a wireless power mode causing the entire power armor suit to shake violently. The wearer of the suit, the nameless soldier, didn’t feel the shake… only the tingling glow of electrical fields and combat effectiveness. With another ponderous step he fully disembarked, scanning the damage for any signs of movement, or his objectives. His suit was a close-quarters nightmare: bulky, relatively slow, heavily reliant on the power broadcast from their Battle Bus to even move, let alone sprint or do anything dexterous. A sitting duck, in other words… as long as it didn’t see you.

If it did, you might suffer a terrible fate at the banks of micro-impact grenade launchers, swarm rockets, directed (or omni-directional) flash microwave radiation cannons, a suicide battery overload that measured in the double-digit percentage of kiloton yields, or most soldiers favorite: The automatic shotgun that was simply chambered in 1 gauge.

It fired 60 rounds a minute, could be loaded with multiple ammunition types – and it even came in gunmetal gray.

Point being, the UTF ended up adopting a very… soviet way of thinking when it came to close quarters combat: Not one step back. No part of any front line would fall without a dear price, for the alternative would be a massacre at the hands of whatever enemy they faced. Never backwards, always forwards, always maximum intensity, always push, for the alternative was the death of everyone you were fighting with. Serial slowly moved forward, taking point, as the hiss and snap of other umbilicals breaking free punctuated the relative silence of the ship. hopped out of the Speed, landing with a heavy thump and turning away from .

No movement. Nothing.

“I’m beginning to think we’re not going to be welcomed.” said, flicking through various EM configurations to see if anything was lying in wait.

“Doesn’t look like it.” replied, stepping down from the Speed, slowly and ponderously walking down the hallway to expand the beachhead before . “Evens, you got anything?”

Shrugged, as best she could. “Nothing moving, but it’s warmer on my side according to thermals.”

stepped around his battle buddy, the shoulder of his suit pressing into the metal of the wall and digging a groove into it. “Well. Heat usually means activity. What’s the goal?”

thought for a moment, as the rest of the Kings of Eternity slowly poured out of Speed like a flow of deadly, trauma-inducing molasses. “Evens will go and check out the heat, Odds with me. Absolute priority is stealing the fridge; VIP is second and crew is third. Do we have our saw?”

hooted an affirmative, raising his one arm that had been removed and replaced with something that could generously be considered a circular masonry saw if it was left to the design of panzerchokolade-addled operation paperclip survivors. Intimidation was good, and utility was better, but everyone agreed that a saw without some form of flamethrower attached just wasn’t worth taking.

There was a round of affirmations, and the group split in two to begin their mission.

The South London Express had “landed” quite nicely. The pilot picked the biggest rock out of the cluster, fired the thrusters at full blast, hit the nickel iron meteorite at full bore, and drilled through it like a hot knife through butter. He drilled, fired his jets, welded himself to the rock, and opened the TBM. All of this, too, was to spec, and was not in and of itself surprising. As the jaws yawned open, the kill team “Bloody Tears” turned to look out the opening, their stability cages blowing open.

As one, they stared, red-eyed and hulking, at broken stall walls, a slurry of sewage and water, annihilated sanitation equipment and a single Jornissian female who they actually scared shitless.

“Do you have time?” asked, as he faced the shaking pirate, eyes glowing with terawatts of power pumping into his suit.

“[What’s going on?! Who are you – I surren-]”

“Do you have time to hear the good word of our personal lord and savior, JOHN MOSES BROWNING?” asked, and fired his weapon once. The round, for him, carried no recoil – gas escaping in chambers and pistons that nullified the majority of the kick, with computer stabilization taking up the rest of the force. The round, for the unfortunate pirate, impacted her unarmored body with such force that it spun her perpendicular to the floor, passing through her torso with ease and into the next few stalls until it exploded against the solid nickel-iron wall in a shower of sparks and shrapnel.

“I fucking guess not!” Laughed as he stood up in the South London Express, the two kill team members leaping off of their Battle Bus to establish a perimeter. “They never do~”

“Fair, fair.” replied, landing behind them as their team began to disembark and spread out, blind-firing into the stalls as they went. As the kill team fanned out from the ladies’ restroom and into the wider hallway, an invisible war was being fought all around them; electronic attacks and countermeasures were being spawned and swept away, attack and defense programs born and mutated and defeated and co-oped and churning in the systems around them at the speed of light itself. Biles’ crew was good, but the UTF – as stated earlier – realized that EM/ECM immediately leveled the playing field in any battle, and designed programs as if their lives depended on it.

The battle, which saw ten thousand programs fight, mutate, and die, was over in a matter of seconds. The station intercoms crackled to life, every commbead, kiosk, terminal and PDA barking to life with a brutal, computer-generated voice.

“WE HAVE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU ABOUT SECURING YOUR SAFETY.” It echoed in three dozen common tongues at once, the cacophony of noise forcing the xenos to stop what they were doing to set audio filters to something less abusive.

“LET IT BE KNOWN.” The message continued, the sound of gunfire loud in the background. “WE ARE HERE. IF YOU SURRENDER, YOU WILL NOT DIE. IF YOU FIGHT, WE WILL NOT TAKE PRISONERS. IT IS NO DIFFERENCE TO US.”

turned to the left outside of the ladies’ room as the message played on repeat, taking a directed energy weapon to the head; his helmet – although a masterwork of human engineering – glowed at the force of energy sent it’s way, partially beginning to warp and melt. His shoulder panel exploded outwards, his suit’s AI determining that no, this was unacceptable and automatically responding with a volley of swarm rockets. Fourty entropy-guided rockets shot from his body, the force rocking him to the side and glancing the beam weapon as they detonated everywhere, on the ceilings and walls, on the vending machines and terminals, on those who were both attacking and fleeing. stood at his shoulder, unloading his main cannon into the center of the smoking, burning mass, and continued until his drum ran dry.

It made no difference to them, once the smoke settled.

“You having fun over there?” asked, slight concern in his voice. “Suit says you’re fucked in the head.”

laughed. “They shot me in the head, so it did no fucking damage! Right eye’s shot though, and I’ve lost some traversing.”

hummed to himself as his crew began to push further into the station, securing the immediate hallway and the surrounding rooms. “Then you hug the left wall. Who’s your buddy – 09?”

responded with a sound-off, taking #04BT’s place as the former began to move down the hallway. “Yessir. I’ll keep him out of more trouble.”

“Well that’s no fun.” said, his grin somehow radiating through his suit. “We on fridge duty? Or what’s the deal here now?”

“Deal’s the same as it has been.” said, stepping over a Karnakian who was going into seizures from the gaping stomach wound he had suffered. “Fridge duty if we get close. VIP duty otherwise. If the general crew is still alive, we secure them as well.”

“Fuck, that was what. 40 people? Ish?” asked, looking around at the carnage opportunity that he just missed. “Guess we should look for a big room.”

“Sounds good. Low evens will stay here – Two, Four, that’s you – and Three. If we get prisoners we’ll cuff them and go from there; if we don’t, we don’t. Let’s try to get the crew first… more hands, more eyes, we can get an actual sitrep.” commanded, and was met with a round of affirmations.

“Ok ok ok ok ok ok ok-” Nate hyperventilated, pacing in his room with the kind of all-consuming, nervous energy that hits us all when shit is hitting the fan. He had no idea what was happening; one second he was waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, most likely being found out by the pirates and used for ransom of some sort – and the next moment, his suit had cheerfully informed him that help was on the way on something called The Magic Schoolbus, and it was approaching at roughly 800km/h and if he could be so kind as to not move that would be great.

This information had gotten him out of Bleppy’s coils with excitement and anticipation. With sign language, pantomime and drawings on the sandpit bed he got his message through, and the change in the brothers was immediate: Hrrs-tssk’ grew antsy, nervous, but Bleppy became… resigned, almost. Bittersweet. Before Nate could dispense enough reassuring headpats something had rocked the relatively small asteroid to the side; there were the sounds of rushing air, of gnawing metal, of fire and steel and fury. That didn’t concern Nate; he’s had many nights like that after eating gas station sushi.

What concerned him was all the screaming from just outside his door.

“Uhh, uhh. YOU.” Nate yelled, pointing to Hrrs-tssk’. The Jornissian pointed to himself, and waved his hand in a “lay down”, “flat” motion. It took Hrrs-tssk’ a few moments to connect the dots, but he took his weapon, his armor and his military clothing and dumped it in a pile on the other end of the room, laying down flat opposite it with his hands on his head, fingers interlocked. Nate furrowed his brow at the apparent ease Hrrs-tssk’ went into a submissive posture, but couldn’t spare any time for it.

He needed to make sure they lived.

He spun on his heel as the sound of gunfire stopped, a low thumping sound reverberating through the corridor just outside their welded-shut door. It automatically pinged an opening sequence chime, motors whining against the force of the emergency weld as it attempted to swing open at someone elses’ bidding. The door attempted to open a second, and then a third time before quitting just as the footfalls ended outside the door itself.

“Just BUY the fucking car warranty!” A voice yelled over a local intercom, reverberating through the relatively thin metal of the door. Nate tapped a switch on his wrist, his suit speakers dialed up to 11.

“I GAVE AT THE OFFICE.”

“COMING IN.” The other voice barked, and the metal door bowed inward as pressure was applied on the other side. There was a grinding noise, a whine of industrial motors, and a thin line of sparks began to spray through the door as it was cut open. Nate turned towards Bleppy, who was clutching one of his idols tightly to his chest.

“Hey. HEY!” Nate yelled, jumping up and down to get Bleppy’s attention. With an exasperated growl he jumped up and grabbed Bleppy’s hood, pulling him down to his level and breaking whatever mesmerizing spell he had fallen under.

“Look. At. Me.” Nate said, staring the best he could into the eyes… eye of his friend. With his right hand he pointed to his face, then to the ground, and made a winnowing, minnowing gesture. He repeated the sequence again, before Bleppy nodded slightly and began to burrow down.

He disappeared under the sand, the last bit of his snout covered with faux gravel as the door was peeled open like a can. Nate turned in place again and held up his hands in surrender as a giant, black war machine bowed down to get through the opening, before standing up to it’s full height.

“Well I see you eat your wheaties.” Nate said, letting out a chuckle. “Glad to-”

“Identification Phrase.” The killing machine barked, weapons leveled.

“Ozymandias is what zero pussy does to a motherfucker.” Nate responded, hands still up and the mirth out of his voice.

“Last Three of your Citizen ID plus your Identification Number.”

“17776.” Nate replied, staring intently at his rescuer. The first killing machine was joined by a second, and then a third – weapons scanning the room.

The Killing machine sighed. “Duress?”

“Negative. The Jornissian on the floor is an ally and should not be harmed.” Nate said, lowering his arms slowly. “My life raft is attached by tethers to the other side of this vent. I don’t know where my crew is-”

“And the Jornissian under your feet?” One of the killing machines said, as his partner put Hrrs-tssk’s arms in irons and the other killing machines finished ripping apart the door.

Nate swallowed, hard, and attempted to somehow stand taller. “That’s… That’s my emotional support animal.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Callaway.” The third killing machine said, staring intently at the ground beneath Nate’s feet. “Why is he on the manifest? What’s going on?”

Nate, without looking away from his rescuers, kneeled down and scratched at the gravel bedding. Slowly Bleppy rose out of his bed, clutching in his hands the small human hero figurine. He stood there, staring at everything that his warmcuddles were not supposed to be, eyes downcast in both fear and sorrow. Kill Team “Spite” stared at the malformed Jornissian in silence, unmoving, as they examined him in a way that the poor boy had never been scrutinized before.

“[I… um.]” Bleppy said, staring at the feet of the men who would take away the only thing that brought him joy. “[W-would you like to see my figurines? I… made them myself.]”

Bleppy looked up at the unmoving, unflinching, borderline suicidal soldiers, before ashamedly looking away. And as he sat, stewing in his own dark thoughts, Nate lifted his hands to the heavens and began to tell Bleppy’s story. He spoke of the hard times, of well meaning family, of being abandoned, of the scorn, of the abuse, of hiding away, of finding hope and losing it, of desperate choices made by a prodigal son, of a thousand other tragedies that had befallen this Jornissian – this man, with hard hands and a soft heart, who deserved none of the pain that had been laid across his mind and his body, who had endured in the darkness with no hope of seeing the light for decades.

And Spite listened, intently.

And they were Goddamned furious.

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops Chapter 27: No Solicitors

Movie night – the concept of movie night, at least – was surprisingly enough a constant among all the species of the galaxy. There was something nice about having a communal experience with provided snacks among friends, or even strangers who would soon become friends. There were other constants within that constant too; drinks would be spilled. Someone would have to get up in the middle of the show to use the restroom. Some of the younger members would… need to be chaperoned if the lights were lowered too far, let’s say. And of course, of course, someone would also be talking while the movie was going on.

So the three sapients crowded around the small tablet screen, the babbling sound of the historical documentary being talked over by the babbling sound of the human.

“-And so then Abraham Lincoln, the first man to count to 1 and the father of pennies, was able to defeat the great betrayer John Cena at Madagascar, saving the zoo of endangered animals for Monsanto to exploit for generations to come, and officially starting the first Earth Day.”

“[Hmmm.]” Hrrs-tssk’ hummed, a soft lopsided smile spread across his features as the human’s words were totally lost on him. Bleppy snuck a look at his brother and smiled as well, turning his head partially to speak to him without tearing his eyes off the screen.

“[See what I mean?]”

“[I do, I do.]” Hrrs-tssk’ said, his wounds long since forgotten. “[It really is a totally different experience in person.]”

Bleppy rested his chin on Nate’s head, absorbing and radiating some leftover smug from the warmcuddle. “[I told you so.]”

“[Yeah, yeah.]” Hrrs-tssk’ said, fidgeting slightly with his hands as he remained leaned over to watch the tablet and his new friend. “[I’m still… not liking this, this waiting.]”

Nate sighed, watching the documentary with decidedly less interest as he eavesdropped on the brothers. “You know I can hear you both right? This is the grapest story never told and you’re both worried about things you can’t control.”

“[We have nothing else we can do but seal our home and wait.]” Bleppy said, giving a light shrug with his hood. “[You confident in your cold-welding of the door?]”

“You mean the silly putty looking stuff?” Nate said, reaching up to pat Bleppy’s cheeks as he rested above him. “I’m gonna say it again – you should have let me reset my traps – now I know how to make them lethal.”

“[It is what it is.]” Hrrs-tssk’ said, sighing. “[It’s not going to hold permanently, but it might allow us enough time to make our case.]”

Bleppy responded to Nate’s pats with little pats of his own on the human’s torso, by and large ignoring him for the moment. “[That’s the best we can hope for, for now. But we do not negotiate on my terms!]”

“[I know, I know.]” Hrrs-tssk’ said, leaning back. “[I don’t thi-]”

Hrrs-tssk’ flinched a bit and turned his head, as if he was hearing something from a far off distance. His jaw moved, subvocalizing something, before looking at the other two with a serious expression; he frowned and shook his head, turning away to gather his thoughts and continue talking to whoever was on the other end of the call. Bleppy instinctively tensed up, and Nate soon found himself drowning in the quicksand of his best friend’s coils.

Bleppy ignored the increasingly-frantic patting of his face as he stared intently at his brother. “[Who is it? Do they kn-]”

Hrrs-tssk’ raised his hand for silence, and continued to speak to someone for a few moments, before rubbing his jaw. “[So.]”

“[So what?]”

“Mmhgmghm!” Both Nate and Bleppy asked, both arguably dying with curiosity.

“[Well. Uh. Everyone knows.]” Hrrs-tssk’ said, matter-of-factly.

“[What do you mean, everyone?]” Bleppy asked, ignoring the flailing of the warmcuddle within his coils. “[You mean the security team? Or everyone on the search team?]”

“[No…]” Hrrs-tssk’ said, a look of extreme concern breaking out across his face. “[I mean, everyone.]”

The kinetic dart was a small, thin thing; closer to a woven needle than an actual dart, it was designed to pierce light armor, dig into the target’s flesh, and balloon outwards once inside the target causing as much trauma as physically possible. The dart – unlike a bullet that we would think of – looked like a long, thin reed that twisted and spun along it’s horizontal axis, the exotic materials that made it tolerating the stresses of the electromagnetic pulse that fired it out of the concealed pistol at an appreciable multiple of the speed of sound. Because of it’s concealability and the relatively small size of it’s ammunition, it was a favorite for clandestine operations; the semi and full automatic options on the weapon were just an added bonus.

Sassafras didn’t so much care how it was manufactured or how it worked, only that it did. Toko had the presence of mind to grab his sibling and the other pirate and leap to the side once his “announcement” was over; the first five rounds from Sassafras’ weapon impacted the heavy gunner, basketball-sized flowers of blood and gore blooming above and below their armored suit. His partner didn’t fare much better; one of her crew tagged hew with some direct-energy weapon, the Dorarizin’s fur igniting immediately and the flesh boiling underneath. As the two fell her crew rushed forward, seizing the position and making sure to dispatch anyone who was still alive to suffer.

The entire initial combat action took no more than five seconds, but in those five seconds the crew of The Perfect finally had a defensible position – they finally had autonomy.

“[Seven, Long-john, Schmitty Webermenjensen – take point!]” Sassafras barked at the crew, the start of a plan of action forming in her mind. Nate was alive. Nate was alive, and they would rip this station apart to find him. As her crew began to openly brandish and use their weapons to build a killzone and a semblance of a beachhead, Sassafras slithered over to Tiki and Toko to get an actual, proper debriefing. She was joined by Licorice, who was less interested in the karnakians’ stories and more interested in what they brought with them. Without a word spoken Toko tossed Breadbot over to the Jornissian Technician, who began unceremoniously pulling it apart both physically and with digital probes.

Breadbot had served his purpose, and would be missed.

“[Let me know what you get.]” Sassafras said, turning towards the sibling duo… and their new friend. Silently she pointed her pistol at the unarmored Karnakian, the unspoken threat overt with malice, her eyes unblinking and fixed upon the outsider.

“[Does he die?]” Sassafras asked, in the same manner one would ask if you wanted cream with your coffee. P“pacheep looked hurt, his gaze darting between the person who used to be his spiritual liege and the incredibly angry prisoner who was somehow armed. 

“[No, no. He’s…]” Toko fanned his crest in thought, reaching up to unbraid his feathers as the pirate lowered his sister to the ground very slowly. “[… an idiot. Innocent, as anyone can be, but good hearted. Sassafras-]” Toko tilted his head and gave his captain a look, and she lowered her weapon slightly. “[-he’s a moltling. Came here to get off-book creds to build up his family farm on a terraforming world. By the yawning abyss, he even gave that up once he got a little kindness, and has been hauling Tiki around without complaint.]”

P“pacheep opened his mouth to protest, but was shushed by a fierce glare from Toko. “[Lad, I told you to do what I say and shut up and you would live.]”

The two stared at each other, before P“pacheep – to his credit and continued survival – simply sat down and closed his eyes.

“[So he’s not a threat.]” Sassafras stated, and both Tiki and Toko let out a confirming trill. She looked at him – studied him, really – for a few long moments before holstering her weapon, turning towards Licorice. “[So what do we have?]”

Licorice looked up from an object no larger than the size of a ping pong ball – the device connected via many wires to a terminal on his wrist. “[Tracking device. He’s still in his emergency suit, and I’ve got both biometrics and location. He is alive and well, though having a bit of trouble breathing; pressure on his body, nothing blocking the windpipe… probably lodged behind something that’s a tight squeeze.]”

Sassafras visibly brightened, a weight she was holding rolling off of her back. “[Where exactly is he? How far away?]”

Licorice shrugged. “[Looks like… maybe a couple clicks…]” he pointed to a spot in the middle distance, somewhere up and to the right. “[Thereish. Having his specific frequency is very helpful, but we’re still fighting obfuscation and jamming measures – and it doesn’t help that this whole complex is made out of iron.]”

Sassafras thought for a moment, before patting her colleague on the back. “[Good, good. Chain that information to everyone’s internals; We’ll work on-]”

“[Um.]”

The group turned to look at P“pacheep, who looked around confused. “[Sorry. Thank you for letting me live! I want to help, if I can. What are we talking about?]”

Tiki hummed. “[We have a little-needs-protecting that… needs protecting.]” She smiled, stretching her leg and working out some of the sore spots from being carried by an amateur. “[And we are all very glad to find that he’s alive and well.]”

P“pacheep sniffed a bit, scratching at his muzzle. “[I … didn’t think they were real. I guess I owe [Stk’shzsk] an apology…]”

“[Who?]” Tiki asked, her knee making an audible crack as she worked out the kink in it.

“[Oh, uh. [Stk’shzsk]. Real fan of little-needs-protectings, I visit him every once in a while, but… well. He’s a bit weird. Collects every little scrap of them he can – has a shrine for ‘em and everything.]” P“pacheep chuckled, lightly. “[He’s probably losing his mind right now.]”

“[I’m sorry.]” Sassafras said, leaning in uncomfortably close as the sound of weapons fire and screaming started to pick up in the background. “[What did you just say?]”

What do you do, if you’re the scientific community and you’ve finally experienced and understand faster-than-light travel…. What do you call it? How much of a nerd do you let the general public know you are?

“Realspace in 15 seconds.”

Realspace wasn’t appreciably different than the warp bubble that Joint Task Force “Old Yeller” was traveling together in; within “warp” you moved through time at a second per second, but through space at multiple speeds of light. There weren’t really “warp factors”, so Star Trek was out. It’s not Hyperspace – because you’re not doing whatever the heck that was, and it sure as hell didn’t require a Gellar Field, so we can just write that science-fiction universe off as well.

“Roger. All hands, prepare for drop.”

So, as always when nerds fail, gray utility comes through: It’s the “real” space that you can fly in. Realspace. Done. Move onto the next problem.

Task Force “Old Yeller” dropped out of warp into Realspace; Humans leading the charge, with the rest of the multispecies task force following nanoseconds behind. On the unnamed pirate station, alarms blared, targeting systems locked on and just as quickly were brushed aside by cutting-edge military countermeasures. Pirate drones were blown apart where they floated, and the entire operation was laid bare.

“Incoming transmission, Captain.”

Admiral Hawkings and Captain Kirk (yes, really, don’t make the jokes to his face or he’ll put you through the floor) connected the call, and Admiral Star-eater nodded her hello once the call was put through.

“[Greetings. Our corvettes are ready to move on your command.]”

Admiral Hawkings returned the nod, as Captain Kirk began to make preparations for their own deployment. “Yes, thank you. If you can give us vision on the other side of this complex, that would be great. We’re about to send out our three volleys; let those strike before you start firing.”

As Admiral Hawkings was talking, three bulky, unwieldy torpedo-like structures ejected from the UTF Flagship Like I wouldn’t Find out and made their way to three distinct points in the pirate complex:

One went to the half-cut ship of The Perfect.

One went to the general location of the life raft.

And the last one just picked the largest rock and said “that’ll do.”

“[I would lie if I said I wasn’t interested in seeing your weapons deployment, Admiral.]” Admiral Star-eater mused, looking intently at her screens. “[Chemical propulsion, it looks like shards on the front – a bomb?]”

“What? No.” Admiral Hawkings said, tapping his console as the operation went underway. “Boarders.”

There was a beat pause before Star-eater jumped in her seat, leaning forward. “[I’m sorry, did you say-]”

“Like I said earlier, Admiral: They won’t know what hit them.”

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They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 26: The New Religion

They say there’s no honor among thieves.

That is, of course, a gross oversimplification, and not totally correct. Sure, thieves do not fight for King or Country or for any greater good than their own selves. The fight for self-determination, however, does have some nobility to it – and anyone who’s ever paid taxes has had such rebellious thoughts seriously cross their mind, as most pirate recruiters are quick to point out. Although nobility might be in very limited supply, pragmatism was not; doing what made the most sense and gave you the most resources at the end of the day usually ended up being the “right” choice.

Today, the right choice for one particular aspiring pirate named P“pacheep was to sit down against the cool nickel-iron wall of the main asteroid habitat and just exist for a while. The captive doctor he visited did not ignore his oaths – although the Dorarizin may have skimped on the pain medications – and P“pacheep was feeling better after the incident from a few days ago. He may even venture to say that after his first real checkup and health boost in years, he was doing better than he was before!

The thought made him smile, his feathers splaying out in a moment of relaxation as his mind began to reflect. Seeing the doctor probably added another 50 years to his life with the incidental outpatient work and booster shots he picked up. He was part of a big haul. He was injured as part of a big haul. His shares would… probably be pretty good, at least a couple years of ordinary wages off of just this one ship. He could ask Brains on what to do with the funds once they were transferred to a fringe star system account, and if things kept on keeping on as they were, he might even be able to start sending some GRC to his family back home.

Home. The thought was bittersweet to P“pacheep; His home was a dusty brown world with a name so fresh the ink hadn’t dried yet on the official registration paperwork. It was barely terraformed, and each homestead was more of a bunker than an actual house. Raw materials had to be ripped and clawed and gnawed and processed and forged just to become something useful – something basic, that everyone else took for granted… like water.

Sure, his parents were probably right: By the time he was old and bald, his down long since fallen and his claws blunted, his children – or grandchildren – would live in a paradise, with plenty of land and resources to do what they wished for the rest of time. P“pacheep wasn’t against multi-generational projects; he just wish he was consulted before being born into one.

P“pacheep frowned a bit, pulling his limbs tighter against his body as he became lost in his thoughts. Sure, he wasn’t super smart but even he could see that being the first generation on a new planet was a fool’s game – the real payoff was coming in on the second or third wave and just buying completed land and resource rights. If his parents were too stubborn to see that, and his family too dedicated to the task to realize there was a better way-

“|You seem to have a lot on your mind, brother.|”

P“pacheep started at the sound of a stranger’s voice and turned a bit too quickly – a phantom headache making itself known before slowly subsiding. With a wince of pain P“pacheep cracked a single eye open to glare at the new visitor – before realizing he was looking at the civilian ship’s holy man. Remembering some etiquette, P“pacheep gave the stranger a slight deferential dip with his tail. “|My apologies, sir. Just thinking, while I have the time to.|”

“|Well, if you don’t mind me taking a break as well-|” The priest said, lowering a cloth basket of various drinks and electrolyte snacks to the ground between them, before sitting against the same wall that P“pacheep rested against. “|-it’s good to have company. I’m… Tr’’ro’koi.|”

“|P“pacheep.|”

“|Well! Strong name, that is.|” Tr’’ro’koi said, rocking slightly to become comfortable before settling in. “|I was going to pass you by, but I was studying your expressions and scrying your heart. It looks like you need someone to talk to.|”

“|Hah. It’s… well.|” P“pacheep rolled his head side to side, both stalling for time and working out some kinks in his neck. “|I come from a first-gen planet, and it’s very hard-|”

“|I know – that’s one of the roughest lives you can live.|” Tr’’ro’koi agreed. “|Sorry, do continue.|”

“|Yeah, I just. I left to do this because I don’t have any real skills that can bring in a lot of money, and any industry that’s being built back home is… not going to be useful to anyone for many centuries. I signed on because of the money – sure – but also because… if I can make in a year what my family makes in a decade, then after a couple dozen spanlifes I could come home and accelerate everything.|”

Tr’’ro’koi said nothing, but reached down and offered a canned drink to the younger Karnakian. P“pacheep dipped his head in thanks and took the drink, ripping open the soft aluminum top. “|We’d have proper equipment, and more of it. We’d have new equipment to make life easier. We’d be able to own and grow luxury goods, which would actually set our family tribe up for generations, if not forever. If even a fifth of my siblings would’ve just followed me… maybe not here, fine, but somewhere, we would be…|” P“pacheep waved at the empty space in the hallway with his drink, before taking a sip. “|I don’t know. Better?|”

“|Mmmmm. I don- well, first, thank you for sharing.|” Tr’’ro’koi said, making a suitably holy gesture with his hands. “|Second, if I may drop the monastic act here for a moment and speak to you as just another weary traveler who’s seen a lot of this galaxy and what it has in it: People don’t just wake up one day and decide to commit violence, or to hate, or to be evil in general. Life is a lot of gray areas, and although there are certain points we can all rally around – that this is good and that is bad – there must still be room for good people to do bad things and for bad people to do good things.|”

Tr’’ro’koi leaned back a bit, preening his neck in thought with his free hand. “|Your family is worried, probably; they’re worried that you’re dead, or hurt, or that they raised you wrong – and that the “wrongness” might spread to their other hatchlings. They might be worried you’ll come back a shell of your former self, or come back only to die and be buried. There’s probably a million things on their mind about you, and it probably comes and goes, just as it does for you as well in these quiet moments.|”

Tr’’ro’koi looked down and smiled warmly, his collar crest fanning out. “|But I would not be concerned. They raised you well, and your motivations are pure; I don’t think you wish evil on people… you felt desperate, and you took a desperate chance. There’s no sin in trying to provide for your family, and ohdearwe’redoingthis-.|”

Tr’’ro’koi did not get to finish his thought, as P“pacheep let out a soft, warbling wail and flopped onto the “holy man”, ugly crying into his chest. “|Why is everyone so mean to meeeeeeeee~|”

Tr’’ro’koi looked down at P“pacheep’s hips, before looking up into the middle distance. “|I… don’t know, brother.|” He said, patting P“pacheep’s back soothingly. “|Hurt people hurt people. Maybe, with your kind heart, you can minister to these lost souls in your own way, and guide them back towards the light.|”

Tr’’ro’koi meant for that comment to be supportive nonsense – the kind of word mush that a parent would give a teenager letting them know that yes, it will all be alright, and that no, no one will remember you rolling up a personal pan pizza and deepthroating it in the school library. However, Tr’’ro’koi was wrong on both counts.

P“pacheep looked up at Tr’’ro’koi with newfound fire in his eyes, and said the line that would save his life – and take roughly 50 years off of Tr’’ro’koi’s.

“|Your words are wise and true – I will be your disciple, honored master!|”

Tiki smiled and sang to herself, fully brooding like a mother hen – or well, Karnakian – in the middle of the warehouse. It certainly looked odd, and on more than one occasion Tiki was asked if she needed help, or if she would like to rejoin her friends, or if maybe – just maybe – she should be escorted to medical to be checked out again. She had politely declined all offers and remained a fire and safety hazard, with the repeated assurances that the priest of her order (which she was having trouble remembering exactly which order she belonged to right now) would be back soon and then they’d rejoin the flock as one!

Oddly enough, none of the pirates took her up on her offer of a religious conversion, which would include a free full-body shaving and an “introductory kinetic baptism” at a time and place of her choosing.

So she sat there, alone with herself and her thoughts, and smiled and sang – until the warehouse doors rolled open on well-worn tracks, the sound of her brother and – and someone else – making their way to her.

“|-so uh, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.|” A voice – her brother’s – said. The tone was off, and Tiki frowned slightly.

“|That… sounds silly. What if you’re facing the wrong way, or forget something 900 miles later? Shouldn’t the first step be a travel itinerary and a checklist? Or uh.. Ah… oh.|” A second, and younger voice trailed off. Tiki felt herself age just a bit quicker, and mentally prepared herself for digging out of the hole her brother tossed them both in. She opened her eyes and smiled at Toko, who returned her smile… lopsidedly. She also looked at some pirate Karnakian that was following him and seemed to have the stars in his very eyes and was looking at her like… like.

Oh dear.

“|Ah, so, this is my – our – honored sister, Tr’’r’ikii.|” Toko said, stepping over gently to lay down the bag of drinks and food at his actual sister’s feet. “|A priestess of our order-|”

P“pacheep stared at the woman, unable to see anything else. “|She is the very image of the divine.|”

The siblings shared a look with each other, the kind of look that guaranteed a beating would commence at some time and place of her choosing.

Toko laughed nervously, looking around at the sparsely populated warehouse they were in. “|Ah, hah… yes, we all have a part of the divine in us – come along, sister, let us not spend too long here, lest we forget our vows of non-violence.|”

Tiki inhaled deeply, centering herself. “|I didn’t expect a new… disciple, brother. One who is uninitiated will not truly appreciate the …holy relic I have rediscovered, and wish to put into your care once more.|”

Toko, to his credit, did his absolute level best to not look utterly confused. Tiki picked up on it, in that way that twins often do, and directed his gaze down her front to her brood-feathers. Leaning slightly to the side, she exposed their caste’s most holy relic.

Ding, chimed the holy relic, underneath all the feathers.

“|Honored masters, what is that?|” P“pacheep innocently asked, before Toko rounded on the young lad.

“|There is absolutely no time to waste-|”

“|But what is that? We have time, you can terhgmd.|” P“pacheep looked down at the hands that clamped his muzzle shut, his “honored master” bringing their faces dangerously close to each other.

“|Listen. To. Me. You’re a good kid, and I like you, and that’s probably my first mistake.|” Toko said, as firm as granite and as quiet as the grave. “|You are going to say nothing about this to anyone, you are going to follow along with whatever we do, and you are not going to ask any questions-|” Toko paused, as if making a new connection in his mind for the first time. “|- if you want to remain my disciple. Understand?|”

P“pacheep blinked his approval, and was released from the surprisingly strong grip of his sensei. He frowned, tilting his head from side to side. “|I just… I just wanted to kn-|”

“|Tell you what, kid!|” Toko chirped as he helped his sister up onto her feet, fluidly taking the Holy Relic into his free arm. “|My dearest sister here is in no condition to walk. So-|”

“|So you’d like me to keep her company?|” P“pacheep asked, hopeful.

“|So I’d like you to carry her. We must get to the rest of our flock, so I’m going to ask you to lead. And we must do it quickly, so I expect you to run.|” Tiki glared a look into the back of Toko’s skull, and he felt it – though he’d never admit to it. “|Not only does everything – and I mean everything – count on it, but our very lives may be at stake!|”

The three Karnakians stared at each other, before Toko stamped his feet. “|Come on then, mount the boyyARGH-|”

Tiki pulled a primary from Toko’s arm, and used it to fan herself in a most un-ladylike manner. “|Well. As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I’m fine with it. Are you?|”

P“pacheep had never agreed to anything faster in his life.

“[So, how was the meeting?]”

Sassafras gave a non-committal rumbling hiss, drawing a line in chalk on the ground. “[Same as I told the others, same as I’ll tell you.]” Sassafras looked up at one of her crewmates – Pool Noodle, as Nate called her – and shook her head. “[They’re worried, we’re worried, and we’re all just waiting for something to happen.]”

The other Jornissian – Pool Noodle – coiled up with a sigh. “[I hate hurry-up-and-wait.]”

“[Don’t we all?]” Sassafras chuckled, continuing her idle art. “[So are you also interested in the battle plans? Because I think we’re almost done mapping out what Licorice was able to figure out about this station’s layout, and I’m not certain…]”

To her credit, Pool Noodle didn’t sag too deeply at the implication. “[You think it’s too far gone? If that’s the case, yeah, I’m ready to make someone pay.]”

“[Well, I thi-]”

Sassafras never got to finish that thought as the doors to their prison-cell-turned-defensible-position slid open suddenly, a commotion and a tangle of bodies trampling over the Pirate’s heavy gun position and knocking over the sandbags and debris that had been piled up as an impromptu barrier. Tr’’r’ikii spilled out over the mass of bodies, the Karnakian who was carrying her not making the best of entrances. With a hoot and a piercing cry Tr’’ro’koi stood above the writhing mess of confusion and insults and lifted something up with his bare hands. Like Moses bringing the tablets to the Israelis, Like lightning coming down from the mountaintop, he rumbled and roared and all eyes were affixed upon The Most Holy and Sacred Relic-

And Pillsbury, not used to this much attention at all and feeling quite bashful shorted some wires, toasted himself once more, and let out another cheerful Ding.

And the crowd went wild.

“[So, anything yet?]”

Bile gave a non-committal, frustrated screech in response, drawing yet another path for his drone swarm to scan and sift through the debris of the civilian ship they had butchered so freely. “[It’s the same as it was 5 minutes ago, the same as it was 5 hours ago, and the same as it was a few days ago.]” Bile leaned back at his console, pulling away the headset glasses from his bloodshot eyes. “[I’ve been working straight since then, and I haven’t found a damn thing.]”

One of his subordinates let out an exasperated sigh, The Jornissnan picking at errant scales on his forearm. “[I appreciate you telling us about what we’re looking for, I get it, but… we’re all just waiting for something to happen, and I don’t like it.]”

“[You and me both.]” Bile said, flatly. “[But I’m running out of ideas. There are no life forms left on the ship or around it, and everything that is biological has been pulled in-house and sifted. By the void’s sake, I can tell you everything they ate last week, but I can’t tell you where the human’s body is.]”

The Jornissian hummed to himself. “[What if he’s on-station though?]”

“[We’d have found it.]” Bile groaned, closing his burning eyes and leaning backwards. “[We’ve sifted through every person and place on these rocks, and-]”

“[No we didn’t.]”

Bile, usually not one to allow an interruption to go unchallenged, uncharacteristically remained silent. He didn’t open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge the insubordination, but his silence was enough.

“[Sorry, just. Maybe he’s on an older part of the station? Or maybe he’s in a personal life-craft?]” The Jornissian ventured, flicking through video feed channels on his terminal. “[We’ve scanned the wreckage enough, but have we scanned ourselves?]”

“[That’s.]” Bile paused for a moment, before letting out a mirthless laugh. “[That’s… damn, alright. That’s something that we didn’t consider. Can we-]”

Before Bile could finish his thought, one of his subordinates wordlessly overrode every single terminal in the room. Although doing this was a feat of programming and engineering that would earn Bile’s subordinate both a drink and a backhand, all words and thoughts bled away at the sight – at the urgency of what was on screen.

The drone was a simple and stupid one, and was slowly coasting towards a single block of lumpy metal, floating aimlessly near the outside of an unused thermal vent from the first carved staging rock. There was no indication on the block, there was no lights or transmissions or anything to make it stand out, save for one very simple thing: It was moored.

“[Oh. OH. OOOOHHHHHHHH]” Bile cried out, standing up as he raised his arms to the screens arrayed before him, crowing with joy. “[TELL EVERYONE. NOW.]”

And across three asteroids, and a couple dozen private communication beads, the notice went out.

And the crowd went wild.

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Stories They are Smol

They are Smol – Badguys, Boxes and Boops, Chapter 25: Zeitgeist

The two old station workers sat, rambling to each other during their third hour of a 15 minute lunch.

“[And then they broke down my door!]” Rrsn’sspri said, raising his arms in a big sweeping motion. “[And I thought someone was going to steal that little guy, so I pulled out my old service pistol and-]”

A grey’d muzzle Dorarizin let out a chuckle, rocking his head. “[Oh stop. You brought out that thing? What next – you killed 50 men and got an award?]” He smiled, coyly. “[Where do the scantily clad sexy women come in?]”

Rrsn’sspri’s coworker was rewarded with a tossed drink cap, the two men laughing as they watched the stars roll by, the station languidly turning with it’s interplanetary orbit. “[I am serious, though. Little guy tried to escape, he did – tried to have his own little adventure.]”

The Dorarizin sighed, crumpling up the soft metal tray that his second – or third – lunch serving came in. “[I am not going to believe that you, of all people, befriended a wild human and then defended him against an attack squad of ex-mercenaries! Rrsn’sspri, I believed you when you said you dug up and landed that Rokwyemi, I gave you the benefit of the doubt when you said you saw an asteroid collision drop into ol’ Big Green and flare up as it hit atmosphere, and I charitably let you tell that story of you saving that nest of eggs from being spaced while the station – this station that you and I have been on for the past 500 years – was ‘falling into a black hole.’-]”

“[Considering how the rookies are making repairs, it’s not too far off.]” Rrsn’sspri interrupted, and the two broke out into laughter again.

“[Fine, granted. But This is just too much, old friend.]”

“[Fine!]” Rrsn’sspri said, leaning over conspiratorially. “[Then if I’m wrong let me be flash-frozen where I sit!]”

It was at this point that Joint Task Force “Old Yeller” warped into system, thrusters burning in retrograde to halt momentum as the combined force of arms appeared well within the service well of Sweetwater’s ports. Both men’s PDAs began to scream, and with the surprising ease borne from years of experience, the two automatically shut them off while keeping rapt attention at the viewscreens.

“[I uh… I didn’t mean it.]” Rrsn’sspri said, matter-of-factly, as one of the smaller military ships moved towards the station.

Admiral Star-eater, United Peoples’ Systems Representative to the Senate – and therefore, the Senate’s liaison to Joint Task Force “Old Yeller”, frowned as she reviewed the same information that her younger, newer allies were dissecting. Part and parcel of working with a new species was finding out how they dissected the same problems you were looking at; Everyone saw the same truth, but from a different perspective, and including that new perspective into your own calculations gave you a better overall view of the whole truth.

“[Look at this, he just swooces right on in.]”

“[Is that… an official term? Swooce?]” Admiral Star-eater said, idly picking at an errant tooth as she interrupted the apparent roasting of the staff and personnel of the starport they were currently parked outside. The bridge of her armada’s flagship, The Final Word, was aglow with multiple video streams, decrypted data, audio files and a couple physical interview transcripts of the incident that Nate masterminded. Her Captains, intelligence officers and bridge staff were following along with the timeline and dissection of that data, but the commentary by her tiny-chomper allies was…

“[Look at his face, look at his face. Oh man, y’inz slippin if everything’s connected by magnets-]” Someone off-screen said, rewinding and replaying Nate and Rrsn’sspri’s first meeting a half-dozen times.

“[Apparently… so. Admiral.]” Captain Fierce-gale mused, shaking his head. “[Though I honestly think they make up words on an as-needed basis and the rest of the species just goes along with it.]”

“I don’t think you’re wrong, but that keeps the translator guys in business.” Admiral Hawkings said, a half-smile on his face as the impromptu commentary was cut. “Though, I’ll ask my analysts to use more standard language in the future. As a side note, it’s good to see hot mics are a universal constant.”

“[My apologies, Admiral.]” Captain Fierce-gale said, bowing his head slightly towards the camera part in apology and part to hide his smile. “[But at least we’re in agreement.]”

“Yes. Honestly, I don’t think there’s any foul play here – and Snake Dad has been very cooperative with his interview.” Admiral Hawkings noted, picking up the conversation where it left off. “Though I can’t agree with the name Nathaniel gave him, it seems like a very cut and dry misadventure. For our part, we don’t believe anyone locally was involved in this whole ordeal; this system wasn’t taking care of it’s IT security patches, and we identified the malware that was installed into the job ticketing system. It, of course, didn’t lead us anywhere, but it at least proved that everyone here is innocent – so I don’t see any reason to stay here longer than we need to. Do you have any updates?”

“[Certainly.]” Admiral Star-eater said, the workers on the bridge beginning to funnel in new data. “[We’ve sent some stealth probes into the general area where the first EWR took place: Although we didn’t find anything stationary there were still some dust and echos for us to sift through. The brigand group we’re hunting had a very simple, but effective game that we’ve seen many times before: Set up a fake trade route between two established systems and cast a net once they get a bite. I doubt the host ship vetted the data thoroughly as it came from a trusted source, so…]”

“The prey leads itself down a dark alley to be mugged.”

“[Eloquently put, Admiral.]” Captain Fierce-gale noted. “[And if I may continue the hunt, here: Our probes then traversed to the final end-point at staggered AU drop-distances.]” As Captain Fierce-gale continued to speak, a new image spread across the various screens of the Armada’s assembled bridge crews.

“It looks like fucking Mickey Mouse. Are you kidding me?” a human voice cried out, and was subsequently shushed.

Captain Fierce-gale pursed his lips, reaching up to scratch the underside of his muzzle. “[Ah, sorry, I don’t know the reference… but. There seems to be three main asteroid clusters – one significantly large one, at the bottom, and then two smaller ones at the top – what we’re calling top and bottom, of course.]” The image was overlaid with heat, IR, Energy and X-ray scans. “[Everything seems to be held together by umbilical cords and some very dubious structural cabling; it’s a temporary structure built for a single purpose.]”

The view changed, enhanced lighting showing the cascading of debris from the center of the cluster; cosmic flotsam and jetsam being pushed into the never-ending garbage patch in the sky.

“[It’s a butcher’s shop. Ships go in, untraceable materials come out. We’re not going to risk the element of surprise by bringing our probes in closer, but from what information we’ve been able to gather there are no defenses to speak of.]”

“That screams trap.” Admiral Hawkings said, taking a sip from his mug as he tapped commands on his station aboard his own flagship. “Unless their entire defense was to remain undetected.”

“[That’s what we’re leaning towards, yes.]” Captain Fierce-gale stated, letting the data speak for itself. “[There’s not energy nor manufacturing capacity that we can detect to field ship based, or even station-based weaponry. Most likely, they’d stay here for a few years, grab a few ships, and then pack up and move to some other part of the galaxy, repeating the process ad-nauseum. There’s no need to dig in – their survival is predicated on flying under the radar, as you say.]”

“So be a big enough operation to be handsomely profitable, but small and fast enough to not get any direct attention.” Admiral Hawkings said, putting the dots together. “So, we’ll have stellar dominance, which is… preferable. We have no idea what we’re going to find inside, though?”

“[None.]”

Admiral Hawking sighed. “Well. Then those poor bastards won’t know what hit ‘em.”

The two siblings sat, tiredly whispering to each other during their third hour of a 15 minute “lookabout”.

“|Are you sure you’re going to be OK to stand?|” Toko said, holding his sister’s forearm in his hands. “|[Drongo] said you shouldn’t be pushing yourself, at all.|”

Tiki smiled, trying to flex her braided feathers in as gentle of a dismissive way possible. “|I’m going to be fine; I was always the stronger sibling.|”

Toko said nothing and continued to rub his sister’s forearm, the silence eventually getting to her.

“|Brother, I’m fine.|” Tiki lied, interrupted by Toko’s soft whistle.

“|No, you’re not. You said you needed a moment because of a bout of vertigo, and then the next thing I know you’re sitting down holding onto the ground for dear life.|” Toko chided, turning away for a brief moment to wave away an inquisitive pirate. “|I shouldn’t have let you come out with me, and we both should be listening to [Drongo] more often.|”

“|It’s not bad.|” Tiki said, closing her front eyes and letting the soul-light dance across her mind. “|Just, sometimes I feel a bit off and need to… rest.|”

“|Well… fine.|” Toko sighed, placing his sister’s hand back in her lap. “|Did you find anything interesting before you decided to take a break?|”

“|Mmmmm.|” Tiki hummed. “|Not really. It’s odd seeing our entire lives packed into crates with everyone’s stuff and just sitting there. I’ve half a mind to start rifling through these boxes for our crap, pick out the good stuff. The important stuff.|”

“|I back up all our media at every stop, Tr’’r’ikii, as well as all our mail. As for the memorabilia… well, you can’t take it with you.|” Toko said, a smile in his voice. “|Wow, I actually am starting to fall into this role. I need to get a drink or get shot – something to make me a sinner again.|”

Tiki let out a two-toned whistle of laughter, before cracking an eye open to look at her brother. “|Yes, but what would the faith say, if one of their pillars turned out to be such a degenerate man?|”

Toko shrugged and stood up, making a show of dusting off his robes. “|Well then, I’d have to have a redemption arc, of course! And seeing a degenerate like myself become pious and pure will lead the masses to repentance and salvation.|”

The two twins looked at each other before Toko exasperatedly sagged, the two siblings sharing a light chuckle. “|Oh wow, you do have it bad.|” Tiki mused, closing her eye again. “|Though mom will be proud that you’re now 30 hours sober.|”

“|New galactic record, it is! Step up your game, dearest sister.|” Toko said, looking around. “|I’ll go get you something to eat and drink – a weary priestess going through a tribulation will stir many hearts and hands.|”

Tiki opened her eyes and furrowed her brow, studying her brother’s back. “|Toko! That’s… surprisingly manipulative, even for you! Are you a genius? Or are you actually living the clothes, little brother?|”

Toko let out a groan and began to scratch at his costume, jogging away. “|OH By the GODS I hope NOT!|”

Tiki hummed her laughter and closed her eyes once more, the sound of her brother fading off into the distance and being merged with the background noise of strange living that pricked at the back of her mind. The sights, sounds, smells and routines of the past few months and years bled away once you moved to a new environment, and whenever Tiki was on vacation or any form of prolonged leave she took time to savor the new landscape, to really imprint it as a memory she could pull from when the monotony of normal life came back too strong to bear. These memories were, are, and always will be separated in her mind as “Pre-Nate” and “Post-Nate”, with the latter having a surprising amount of sirens, emergency workers, cameras and bar fights.

The sudden realization of that binary BC/AD split – that her mind did not choose her years in service, or losing a lover, or her first time in space, but instead chose a feisty little gremlin with wide eyes, a soft heart and a scheming smile that could be seen from a mile away – made Tiki burst out laughing, the sudden movements causing her new pain to mask over the old. Grimacing and displaying in joy she writhed on the ground for a few moments, before coming to a rest upside down on a ramp.

It was, in fact, one of the better ways to position your body to have an epiphany. If you were a Karnakian, of course.

‘What would Nate do, if he was left alone?’

The thought was idle, and small, and so it slipped into her mind with ease. ‘What would Nate do if he was alone?’

Tiki paused for a moment, as she stilled herself to let her mind echo this brave new thought.

It is also in these moments, of course, that the truly absurd can happen.

A memory came up unbidden in Tiki’s mind; an “Official Cultural Celebration” of the 9th ever post-party morning party, Nate standing on the table, fists filled with pancakes and his head in a box, with a peculiar Dirt avian on the box urging you to-

“|Follow your nose.|”

Tiki frowned, and tilted her head as if to hear someone calling her from far away. ‘Follow your nose?’

She sat up with a grunt and a soft moan, her head swimming as she fought both gravity and inertia. “|What… well. I mean. Yeah?|” Tiki said to herself, as the congress of her mind convened and worked out the truth from whole cloth. “|I guess his stuff would smell different, and if he’s in hiding… but these started empty. So, he wouldn’t be here – but the obvious goal is. Yeah, is reconnecting. So how would you send a message to someone that you’re alive without screaming who and what you were? A smell?|”

Tiki looked up, staring hard at the vents.

“|A shared memory?|”

Her hands gripped the scaffolding before her as, with shaking feet, she ascended another level on the cargo bay shelves. Gravity was weak enough that a fall wouldn’t be fatal – probably, she was recovering after all – but allowed her to scale vertically up and down with relative ease. It was more an agility course, in other words, than a climbing competition. Tiki hopped onto a coil of wire, and then onto a stacked empty spool that stood right next to an industrial vent; Her 9th one checked so far. The itch in the back of her brain wouldn’t let go, that she’d find something other than dust and chemicals.

She wiped her face down once again on habit, her white robe long since turned grey. With a sigh, Tiki exhaled, pressed her face against the grate, and slowly inhaled, letting the air flow in naturally.

Dust. Rust. Chemicals. An oil-slick scum on the back of your throat, and toast.

‘That. Wait.’ She thought, and repeated the ritual.

Toast. Auburn brown, golden, made of a favored grass seed, and nuts with exotic spices. Nate had “smuggled” in live Dirt animals – because he believed homemade bread was best, and these animals ate and stank like any other.

This was sourdough.

Tiki opened her eyes, and somewhere there in the vents was the soft ding of an egg timer.

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