Sir ChickenBurger
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Killer Kittens from Outer Space- Chapter Eleven
🕑 Added 2024-02-10 06:30:43 +0000 UTC
Ervamir 3- Upper Orbit
382 Earth-days post-induction
Jel
Jelakka Mar’miar was having a hard time.
He’d never admit to it, not given how hard he’d fought to be sitting where he was, but it was true. Even tucked into the crux of Skara’s shoulder and surrounded by her familiar scent, he still missed the rest of his wives and the comparative luxury of the inner systems.
With a short burst of acceleration, the cramped cargo shuttle pulled away from the Galactic Aid Vessel She-Watches-Over, and he gazed out of the circular viewport as the ship he’d spent the last five months of his life on shrunk into the dark of space.
Not for the first time, Jel wondered why anyone would actually choose a life in the void.
Spacing was a calling that several of his wives had felt the pull of over the years, but he’d never spent more than a few days in the cold expanse himself, mostly quick hops between warp gates to get to some fashion exhibition or another. Now, after three wormhole jumps and many long weeks riding a space bubble the ‘old fashioned way’ out to the fringes of known space, Jelakka was about ready to start climbing the walls of the new, even more restrictive tin can he was strapped into.
It wasn’t like there had been a shortage of amenities on the trip across, but one could only spend so long in a holosuite before the uncanny not-life sensations started to tickle at the hindbrain, and ever since his little spat with Shirr his social life had dropped into non-existence.
Being one of only two males on board had gotten old months ago, and what had started out as mild irritation at the good doctor’s ‘openness’ with the rest of the crew and passengers had grown into resentment when some of the women aboard started barking up his own tree. In hindsight, it wasn’t really his business what Shirr got up to in his spare time, but it wasn’t like he could apologize now without impugning his own morals. He at least wasn’t some rutted-up mrr’mrr who couldn’t keep his pants on. He had standards, and more than enough wives to keep him busy, even if Skara was the only one who’d been allowed to accompany him to Ervamir.
At least it wouldn’t be long now before he got fresh air. He’d done some research on the climate of the human homeworld and had been pleasantly surprised to learn that the nitrogen and oxygen-rich atmosphere meant that he wouldn’t need a respirator. Spacers could swear up and down that recycled air was just as good, but these were the same people who crammed themselves inside titanium boxes and flung themselves across the galaxy for fun.
Psychopaths, the lot of them. No sensibilities.
Or nail salons, he thought, not for the first time as he stretched out his cherry-red claws ruefully. They’d spent most of the last few months back in their natural ivory colour, and he’d been forced to file them himself, down into the half-length that was the fashion in the core worlds, though the look was probably dated by now. Skara didn’t care, of course; she was a classic example of a woman who valued utility over all else. But first impressions were important, and so he’d saved the last of his polish and paint for his arrival.
Even if the humans didn’t appreciate it, the thought counted.
Oh stars, the humans. Every time the subject came to mind his skin crawled, and his ears pinned back. The idea that it had been an Imperial order that laid waste to so many lives… He could hardly stomach it.
Around him in the shuttle, rows of hard, stony faces sat with go-bags at their feet. Most were aid workers, a few were corporate representatives looking to establish an interest in the new world despite the tragedy, and the rest were journalists. Like him, except that the moment they’d figured out who he was he’d been uninvited from their little clique. No one took magazine columnists seriously.
It had taken a frankly absurd amount of time, money and canoodling to land him a seat on the relief effort. The humans were largely being kept at arm’s length while the conflict simmered away on the surface of their planet and being a male had made the whole process damn near impossible, at least initially. Now that the tiktik had escaped the snare and the entire galaxy was watching though, some concessions had to be made. While many of his female colleagues at GalWave who occupied harder-hitting roles had been refused access, Jelakka was used to being underestimated and was very good at weaponizing it to turn the tables. He’d made full use of his connections and sponsorships to land the role.
Eventually, the brass had conceded the point that there needed to be some male representation. They’d even let him bring Skara, though they’d restricted him to a single spouse. It probably helped that, from their perspective, it was safer to fill the seats with a fashion journalist and his wife than two more rights advocates.
At least, as far as they knew.
The truth was that a good amount of Jelakka’s stress was attributed to the tiny chip embedded at the base of his tail, a nanocrystal drive with enough storage capacity to hold over ten terabytes of data. He’d need to be careful about scrubbing any sensitive images and video from his personal devices, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t leaving Ervamir 3 without something to help hold the ones responsible for this mess accountable. His only regret was not telling Skara, or any of his wives for that matter. It was safer that way.
He thought back, turning his polished claws over in the dim shuttle light. “Why do you want this so badly Jel?” she’d asked him on their third night in space. “Why now, after so many years at the magazine? You’ve never been so fixated on a new species before now. This isn’t actually about human fashion, is it?” He’d had no real answer for her. The only one that felt right wasn’t one he could give. He wasn’t so naïve as to assume that— fashion columnist or not— the Imperium wouldn’t be listening to everything they said.
He’d settled on the only response he could give. “It’s important work love. I have lots of people counting on me.” If his wives had known how true that was, that he was risking his freedom and reputation for the humans, they’d never have let him come.
On the last day of their voyage, they’d been summoned into a briefing on the current state of the planet. It wasn’t pretty. Widespread poverty and violent resistance still gripped most of the northern continents where the Imperial military was stretched the thinnest. Most of the aid workers on board were destined for those locations, and not one of them hesitated when the risks were laid out for them.
He still remembered that briefing like it was going on right in front of him.
“Many humans are not yet familiar with Galactic aid symbols,” a scarred kespan peacebroker had explained as she handed out bundles of synth cloth emblazoned with a red cross. “You will be assigned alternative patches that you will wear on your persons at all times. These patches will identify you to the humans as an aid worker. You will eat, sleep and shit with these patches on. You will report any lost or damaged patches immediately and await a replacement before resuming your responsibilities. Some humans,” she’d gone on, “will not care that you are an aid worker. They may try to hurt or kill you anyway. All of you will be subject to intense hatred and vitriol from the moment you set foot on that planet. That goes doubly so for those among you who are kespan. We are the face of the invader. Never forget that.”
Next, she’d turned to the journalists. “The helmets and vests you have been allocated will identify you as press and are outfitted with standard kinetic shielding. Be aware that operating in the northern regions of the planet will mean being attached to a military unit and following commands from that unit’s commanding officers. Some of you may disagree with these measures, but I can assure you that they are both required under Imperial law and are in place for your own safety. Those of you who will be operating in green zones—” she’d looked specifically at Jelakka now with a frown— “will still be living alongside Imperial forces for the duration of your stay, but will receive a greater amount of freedom. Be aware that hatred for kespans and the Imperium in general is present even in areas unaffected by the nanite swarm. They were a globalized people before we arrived, and the bad blood runs deep. Yes, you in the back?” she’d gestured toward a greying ursinian in the back.
“Tresha Rumarr, Galactic Free Press,” the older woman identified, standing so that the tips of her fuzzy ears nearly brushed the ceiling. “How can we expect to do our jobs with the navy breathing down our necks?” she asked bluntly, and amongst the journalists in the room a number of appendages bobbed and writhed in agreement. “Also, you’re telling us that we need to follow orders. Does that include the disposal of journalistic material if an officer demands it? We are here to document a war crime, what guarantee do we have that we will be free to do so?”
“The Imperium retains the right to protect the security of any ongoing operations,” a uniformed Kespan standing by the door spoke for the first time. Her chest was adorned with rows of ribbons, and she’d been standing so still and silently that several of the beings closest to her jumped at the sudden announcement. “If you believe that an order given to you is unlawful you are welcome to submit a report after the fact to the office of fleet—”
“Some things never change,” the Ursinian interrupted. “Dishonour on the lot of you. I was there on Obnit 6 when the bombs dropped. I’ve seen what comes of your reports.”
“Miss Rumarr, I can assure you that the ISF takes any and all reports of misconduct seriously—” the larger woman snorted scathingly at that. “—and you are more than welcome to report on any misconduct you personally witness after the military has had a chance to ensure that doing so does not compromise our ongoing operations,” she held up a hand to stall the ursinian, who was already drawing breath to argue. “I will remind you only once that this planet is off-limits to civilians. You are all here at our discretion.”
At our discretion.
Those words played back through Jelakka’s head as though from a recording while he sat crammed between his wife and that same ursinian. Their first port of call was an Imperial frigate currently in high orbit above the planet, and then from there he was bound for the most stable and isolated continent, the one the humans called Australia.
He’d been surprised to see Rumarr board alongside them as many of the other journalists squeezed their way onto those shuttles bound for the American and European continents; she was well-known in journalistic circles for her fearless war correspondence, but it was possible that she was planning on rotating to the north in the coming weeks. She, like the rest, had ignored his presence on the long-haul flight and barely spared him a condescending glance as they lined up for the shuttle, though she’d had the wherewithal to look abashed when her huge frame hung over into his seat as they sat down.
Never meet your heroes, he thought as the smell of moist ursinian armpit battled his wife’s soothing scent. At least it wouldn’t be a long flight.
“Are you comfortable, my sweet porovir?” Skara’s whiskered face peered down at him, and the ursinian rolled her eyes with a poorly disguised grumble at the couple. Their species weren’t much known for sweet talk.
“Comfortable enough dear,” he replied. “Almost too comfortable, in fact.”
His wife scowled over at the larger woman, who, to her credit, was trying her best not to crowd the male and had opted instead to spill almost halfway over into the seat of an altogether very grumpy duradian, who was suffering in silence, though not without the occasional sullen look cast his way. Women were funny like that.
“Not long now,” Skara said, commiserating. “You might even be able to get a bath in on the ship when we arrive.”
Jel perked up. “That would be nice,” he said. “I probably smell like week-old cheese.”
“No one expects you to smell like flowers and sunshine, Jeli,” his wife consoled him. “But I’m sure they’ll give us time to get presentable.”
“I hope so,” he agreed. “I have an image to uphold, after all.”
The ursinian snorted at that, and Skara leaned across, scowling. Her harness pulled tight against her pink body as she craned her head over the top of Jel’s to growl at the woman. “And what’s your problem? You got something you want to say about my husband and I? Don’t think I’ve missed you glaring at him this whole time!”
“Love, wai—” Jel started, but Skara’s hackles were up, and the ursinian was already turning to her. Annoyance fought a war with bitter acknowledgement on the larger woman’s furry face and lost. The larger woman grumbled, then sighed.
“It is… not a personal quarrel,” Rumarr finally said. “And perhaps I am being dishonourable in how I make my distaste known. But those seats would have been better filled by others with more important jobs to do.”
“Excuse me?” Skara’s fingers went to her harness as she tried to stand, and Jel panicked.
“Love, it’s okay!” he frantically tried to settle her down. “Look, I get it,” he turned to Rumarr, who hadn’t moved a muscle even as Skara fought with the buckles and Jel’s swatting hands. “I see where you’re coming from. But you’re wrong. All the war correspondents in the galaxy won’t make a difference at this point, not without people like me here to make folks back home pay more than lip service.”
“Excuse me?” Now it was the ursinian’s turn to growl, and the hair on her neck stood on end. Some of the other passengers who’d been pretending not to listen in on the conversation were edging away in their seats now, and the duradian next to Rumarr signaled with panicked hands at Jel to stop.
He paid them no heed; there was no backing down now.
“Listen, Miss Rumarr. I’ve read your work, going all the way back to the industrial action on Triktik 5, and I remember most of your big pieces, but how many average folks do you think could say the same thing? What’s the attention span of a whole galaxy, even to something like this?” Jel asked, and her expression darkened. “Sure, we were all outraged when we first heard what had happened, and now that the blockade is lifting, Ervamir is back in the media cycle, but for how long? Another year? Less?” He leaned forward, and the ursinian blinked. “My work? Publications like mine? They make their way into the hands of hundreds of millions of males, all over the galaxy.”
He was almost falling over his words now, but to her credit, Rumarr had stopped to listen to them. “The humans have one of the richest textile and media cultures we’ve ever seen from an unenlightened species. Five or ten years from now, I want Ervamir 3 to still be relevant; I want to give them a chance at prosperity, a shot at the place in the galaxy they would have been offered if we’d taken the time to do things right. I want wives all over the known reaches to save up their credits to buy their husbands a bag made from Ervamir leather.”
“You’d exploit…”
“Look around you!” There was a fire lit under Jel now, as the cracks started to show in his childhood hero’s face. “Ervamir 3 has been quite thoroughly exploited as it is. If the humans ever want the same opportunities as every other race, they need industry; they need cultural exchange. They need an avenue to pursue that isn’t open rebellion, or seats like yours won’t stop being filled by war correspondents any time soon.” Jel was breathing heavily now, months of frustration bubbling to the surface as he stared Rumarr down, and the ursinian blinked again, taken aback as a toothy, bewildered smile started to grow on her face.
He wasn’t done. “Quite frankly, I think my seat has the potential to be more important than yours, let alone some representative of a third-rate local system rag. If you’re just here to put your name on the front pages again, go for it. But it’s the husbands who bring their wives to the table, not the other way around. If you want the galaxy’s eyes on Ervamir for the long run, you can stay out of my way.”
Stunned silence was all that greeted his tirade, wide eyes peering over at him from every corner of the shuttle. Jel stared straight ahead, unwilling to provoke the much larger woman any more than he already had, so he was surprised when a booming laugh rattled the ship.
“Ha! I changed my mind!” Rumarr chuckled. “You’ve got tits on you after all. I’m not much for fashion, but maybe I should start reading your articles, too. Mar’miar, wasn’t it?” She turned to Skara, who, like most of the ship, was still gawking at Jel’s outburst. “You’ve got yourself a fine mate. If I were a younger woman, I might already be negotiating.”
“You wouldn’t get far,” Skara grumbled, still prickling, but Rumarr’s attention was back on Jel.
“I apologise for not introducing myself earlier, though it sounds like you’re familiar with my work,” she said, inclining her head in an ursinian bow that didn’t quite work when you were both strapped to the side of a ship in close proximity. “I am Tresha Rumarr, correspondent for the Galactic Free Press. I regret not speaking with you properly during our voyage, so for that, I must apologise as well.”
“Erk,” Jel squeaked, taken aback at the abrupt reversal. “That’s… okay?”
“It’s not, not really,” the ursinian’s head remained low. “I have acted dishonourably. It is no excuse, but” she lowered her voice, “between you and me, I detest space travel. I rarely socialize on board a craft. I had noticed that you were finding it difficult to fit in with the others, and I did nothing. I once again apologise.” Her head dropped even lower, and the jaws of some of the other journalists on board followed suit. One raised a camera tentatively before it was stuffed back down by her neighbour with a harsh shake of the head.
“No, really, that part at least wasn’t your fault at all,” His childhood hero was bowing to him, and Jel had no idea what to do about that. “Just so long as you understand that I’m here to look fabulous and save the humans. I ran out of skincare products a week ago though, so now I guess I’m just here to help.”
Rumarr laughed again at that, and they spent the rest of the shuttle flight trading notes on humanity, with Skara staring in open disbelief.
“Men, I swear,” his wife muttered under her breath as they neared the portside shuttle bay of the enormous frigate that would be their midway stop before descending to the planet below. “Mysterious creatures. I’ll never understand them.”
