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Grass Eaters | 31 | Outside the Box I (Censored)
🕑 Added 2024-03-24 16:48:00 +0000 UTCContent Censored
This chapter has been censored. The original chapter was written with explicit descriptions of sex. If you are comfortable with that, an uncensored version is posted alongside this one, and you can read that one instead.
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Atlas, Luna
“This… is the SGM-1248 Pigeon. A low-cost standard ship-to-ship missile first introduced to the Terran Navy in the late 21stcentury as the replacement for the—”
John swiped his hand through the air, cutting her off impatiently. “Yes, I’m aware of what the Pigeon is, Kara. Saw plenty of them from my time fighting the Resistance over Saturn, thank you very much. Why are we looking at a thirty-year-old piece of garbage that the Navy retired five years into its service that was so ineffective in tests that the procurement officers involved all got early retirements after ‘unproven’ allegations of bribery?”
“Well, you see, John. After the Navy ditched them, the Pigeons got gobbled up by the private market for good reason,” Kara said, pulling up a Red Zone raid aftermath photo with stacks of Pigeons in the cargo hold of a smuggling ship. “While its kinematic characteristics are mediocre — outdated even — and it boasts zero ewar capabilities, and it is fitted with an old on-board radar, and it is incapable of advanced terminal module identification—”
“Are you going to get to the good part?”
Kara leaned in, her eyes sparkling. “Yes, for all its many flaws, the Pigeon is incredibly cheap. No expensive gravidar on board, old off-the-shelf propulsion components, and sub-Terran level intelligence chips that you can buy at the mall. Because of how successful it became in the secondary civilian market; its manufacturers kept the old production lines open. For a million credits a pop, we have a missile that may not be able to hit one shot in a thousand against a modern Terran combat vessel, or a Resistance ship with any ewar suite made this century, or even a modified inspection cutter patrolling Ganymede. But… it would be perfectly capable of hitting…” She pulled up the picture of a standard Znosian missile destroyer. “Big. Slow. No e-war. No gravidar. Dumb counter-missiles. Big boom.”
John snorted and folded his arms. “So what? We’re spinning up full production lines at Ceres for the next-generation Kestrel, Falconet, and the Thunderbird missiles. Why are we going backwards? Cheap as they are, our bottleneck is ship hulls, not munitions. By the time our ships are ready to go into battle, we’ll have plenty of missiles for them to fire.”
“Oh, John, John, John,” Kara sing-songed. “You’re a spook now, not a Marine anymore. Inside-the-box thinking is verboten at the Recon Office. Oorah? See if you can figure it out while I find us a private ship that will take us to the fun parts of Sol.”
---
Saturn Red Zone
“What a pleasant surprise, Captain Rackham,” the voice of a woman crackled through the scrambled communication feed of The Drunken Seagull. Even with the data bouncing off dozens of encrypted comm nodes and enduring some real-time sound degradation, the middle-aged captain could still detect the disdain laced with a dollop of disappointment in her tone. “For a hot minute there, I thought maybe one of ours did get you in the last series of Red Zone raids.”
Rackham let out a hearty laugh. “Sorry to disappoint, Rep jackboot. I’ve mastered the fine art of cowardice, and we cowards live long out here in the Red Zone. Plus, we even do legitimate trade business now.”
“Legitimate trade business. I’m sorry, I think I might have dialed the wrong number,” the sarcastic voice replied. “My offer from last time is still on the table, by the way. Legal immunity for your entire crew and four million in cash paid out to each of your families. In exchange for getting us any one of the four Aces.”
Rackham shook his head vigorously. “Bah. As much as I’m a businessman happy to do business, you know we’re all dead in a week if I give you that. Them’s the rules. You have yours, and we have ours.”
“Cowardly and dumb. Charming.”
Rackham shrugged it off. “Look, I know you didn’t call me just to insult me again. What do you want this time? I hear you guys are fighting a secret war against ET now. I can get you a good deal on a couple of well-armed Q-ships, completely untraceable to—”
She snorted. “Please. I’ll look into that if we ever need the Bunnies to laugh themselves to death.”
“Hey, we businessmen have feelings too, bootlicker, and you’re hurting mine. If not for my prime custom hardware, what are you really calling for?”
“Pigeons.”
“Pigeons?” he echoed, brow furrowing.
“Pigeons,” she repeated.
Rackham tilted his head, bewildered. “Well, we have a couple dozen in our tubes now, but you know you can buy those at any of the legal, authorized Raytech munitions dealers all over the system, right? I can sell you a DRM bypass pylon adaptor — for completely legitimate use, of course—”
“You might want to check their stocks again the next time you stop at one. Oh wait, I almost forgot, you can’t. Look. You’re a businessman, right? Go do some business with the rest of your pirate and terrorist buddies and get us a big fat load of Pigeons. As many as you can get us.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on a second… you’ve bought out the entire legal Pigeon market?! Those are never out-of-stock! How many of these things do you need exactly?”
Her voice oozed seriousness. “Like I said, as many as you can find. No upper limit and I’m breaking out the piggy bank for this one.”
Rackham thought for a second, and his bargaining brain came online. “Well, if you’ve cornered the legal market on them, they won’t come cheap.”
“Two million for each that can pass a quality inspection. No questions asked about where they’re from. That’s our final offer. Twice as much as they cost you, and I’m sure you’ll want to make a nice, little profit yourself, you slick—”
“You let me worry about my profits and business operation, bootlicker,” Rakham interrupted, his gears turning. “If it is Pigeons you want, it is Pigeons you’ll get. Two million credits it is. Same drop as last time?”
“Same place. And don’t fuck with us on this one. As you may have heard on the news, we have War Powers now, and you will not like what we can do with them if you piss me off…”
Her threats were left unsaid, and Rackham terminated the connection.
“Pigeons for two million, Captain?” Rackham’s first officer looked at him. “You know what they say about when an offer is too good to be true? Maybe it’s some kind of rogue pump and dump scheme by our friendly neighborhood spook. Retirement planning… you know how they are.”
Rackham chuckled, his eyes still glued to his tablet where a scrolling list of underground arms dealers danced across the screen. “Trust me, if our favorite jackboot wanted to burn bridges just to make a quick buck, there are a dozen easier ways for her to go about it,” he assured her. “Black market prices are hovering around one million for now because nobody knows that is what they’re looking for yet. Which is why we need to move fast. Once people get word of this, prices are about to go through the hull. Two million credits may be a good deal today, but in a few days, I bet we won’t find a single Pigeon for sale this side of the asteroid belt under two point five.”
“You think prices are going to move that quick?” his first officer asked, raising her eyebrow in disbelief. “You know this crew can keep a secret or two.”
“Sister, this is the Red Zone. I’d wager the entire ship we’re not the first crew she has called about this, and we won’t be the last. And unlike us, some of the other fine folks they’re calling, their rap sheets don’t contain charges like tax evasion or contraband smuggling. None of this cute, white-collar stuff we do, if you catch my meaning. We’re going to buy up as many of these missiles as we can in the next couple of days, dump them in her lap, and then we’ll lie low for a couple of weeks while the rest of the market ‘sorts itself out’. Now… let’s go make some credits.”
---
Olympus, Mars
“What is this a celebration of?” Martina Wright asked, her fingers delicately caressing the stem of an ornate wine glass that sat on the polished surface of the office conference table.
Raising his glass in a mock salute, Mark said, “To the Republic.”
“To the Republic,” Martina echoed, her eyes twinkling as her lips curled into an amused smile, expecting the punchline.
Mark chuckled slyly. “And to the perverted relationship between its military industrial complex and its clandestine intelligence services.”
Martina burst into giggles. “Oh, Mark, how do you just take the words right out of my mouth every time?”
“Decades of knowing you. What else should we call it if anyone asks?” he asked playfully, placing his hand on the small of her back right where her intricate dress tastefully exposes her skin, drawing her in.
“Contract negotiations,” she murmured, allowing herself to be pulled in, then surprising him with an aggressive kiss on his lips. She pulled back. “Let’s discuss the finer details of these salvage freighters you want over… dinner? There’s a cozy vegetarian place down the—”
Mark playfully interrupted, making a face that was almost a pout. “I’m not hungry.”
Martina’s heart fluttered as she saw the delightfully ravenous expression on his face. “Oooh, an aggressive deal-maker and straight to the point. I like that. My apartment is two blocks away. We can look over your… technical specifications there. If you feel up to it.”
---
They both laid, panting and sweaty, on the tousled blankets.
Martina propped herself up on her elbows and laid her head across his bare chest. “There’s something you need to know, Mark.”
“What’s that?” Mark asked, gently stroking her hair with one hand and giving her a massage on the shoulders with another.
Martina gave him an appreciative moan for his effort, then continued, “Those salvage freighters—”
“Oh, you meant about work,” he said, sounding disappointed.
“Well, one of us has to pay attention in class.” She poked him gently in the ribs. “The salvage freighters you wanted are already assembled at Ceres. The minesweeper will be done in a couple weeks.”
Mark froze, turning over in the bed to stare at her. “The freighters are already built? But we haven’t even transmitted the requirements to your office!”
“Huh, I wonder how we knew?” Martina replied, looking at him with an innocent expression on her face.
Mark rose and tossed her face-first into the bed, grunting with some effort. “No way! Raytech is spying on Republic officials again?” He tenderly pulled her slim arms over her head and behind her back. “You know, you could get into some legal trouble for that.”
She mewled mockingly, “Please, officer, not another slap on the wrist again— yow!” She yelled out in surprise then moaned softly as he gave her a light smack that was most definitely not on her wrist.
“Ms. Wright,” he said with pretend severity. “What you are suggesting is a serious crime indeed.”
“Have mercy on me, officer,” Martina replied lewdly. “We can surely work something out, can’t we? I’ll do anything you ask… if you’re up for another round.”
“Anything I ask, you say?” he cocked his eyebrow.
She turned around and looked him in the eye brazenly with zero hesitation. “Anything.”
---
Martina straightened her ruffled hair and buttoned up her loose blouse as she sauntered over to join her lover on the balcony of her luxury apartment. The glowing morning sun cast its colorful glow on the sprawling Martian cityscape and the couple.
“What a city, eh?” Mark asked, feeling the vibrations of her footsteps as she drew near.
“What a city,” she agreed, draping her right arm warmly around his waist.
“I’m going to miss this. Miss you.”
“How long are you going to be gone this time?” Martina asked, her voice tinged with concern.
Mark sidestepped her question, his gaze sweeping over the city below as he gestured with his hand. “You know we’re the only ones who do this, right?”
Caught off guard by the sudden change of topic, she asked, “Do what?”
“All the aliens we’ve found. They run around the galaxy. They look through dozens of systems. They find habitable planets, and they settle them. It’s got to have a breathable atmosphere, good quality air. It’s got to have decent gravity. That’s why all the pictures you see of the alien colony planets are blue and green.”
“All of them?” she questioned, frowning.
Mark nodded emphatically. “Yep. All of them. We’re apparently the only species in this region of the galaxy, who are dumb enough to see a barren, red rock… no breathable atmosphere. And we go: that’s brilliant, let’s build cities and settle here.”
Martina laughed and playfully jabbed him in the ribs. “That’s because we only have a few systems and keep to ourselves, unlike those aliens. And look where it got them. They call us paranoid. I call us… alive.”
“I’m just saying. We’re the only ones like this. Well… I suppose the Bunnies do it too sometimes, for their camps. To prevent escapees.”
“Are you getting to a point?” she prodded gently. “What brings up these existential thoughts all of a sudden?”
Mark paused, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m shipping out next week. I don’t know how long we’re going. We’ve got our plans, but the enemy gets a vote too. In our line of work, it’s easy to lose track of what we’re fighting for.” He looked away into the rest of the domed city. “But I think I figured it out just now. I’ve only been to Earth a few times since I left; it’s beautiful, but it’s not home. I split my time mostly between Luna and Mars, but I know I ain’t fighting for these two ugly rocks either.”
The intensity of Mark’s gaze made her heart skip a beat.
“Oh, Mark. I love you,” Martina pulled him in and held him tight. Then, on impulse but in a decision she knew she wouldn’t regret, she whispered hoarsely, “Marry me.”
“When I get back.”
She whispered, “Come back to me.”
---
In dozens of cities and among hundreds of families, the same solemn, time-honored Terran ritual quietly played out across the Sol system.
