Sir ChickenBurger
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Killer Kittens from Outer Space- Chapter Seventeen
🕑 Added 2024-02-26 20:32:31 +0000 UTCTommy (continued)
“You’ve got to be joking. No. I won’t do it.”
Seamus scoffed, “Oh come off it. Every teenage lad dreams of being told he has to fuck for his country.”
“Firstly, this isn’t my country, and secondly, they’re not even human! It’s disgusting. I’d rather get burned to death with plasma than stick my dick in their genocidal brand of crazy.”
“I wasn’t just talking about Australia mate.” Seamus took another long sip of his whisky. “You want revenge for what they did to your people, don’t you?”
He simmered. “No shit.”
“Well, just think about it. Hundreds of Imperial personnel, all smitten with young lads like you. Suddenly, their rotation ends, and they have to say goodbye to their exotic new lovers. They can’t bring their boy toys home because their government is too scared to let us out after they genocided us.”
He leaned in. “It’s a poison, and the Imperium won’t have seen the likes of it before. It’ll win us our freedom if we play our cards right; at the very least, they’ll be forced to give us the keys to our own ships. After that, it’s a long play for succession. You’d best believe that’s a better play than dying half-naked in an alleyway or a cheap hotel room trying to take out a random soldier.”
“But…”
“If you still want to go all ‘Allahu akbar’ on their asses, then good for you, but get out.” Seamus broke eye contact, staring instead at the door. “I’ll drink to your memory when they make you a sidenote in the papers.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“He’s a kid, Seamus; he probably doesn’t even know what a paper is,” Danny quipped, his tone light.
Tommy glanced at the door as well. “So, what, no swearing me to secrecy, no veiled threats? Just get out if I don’t like it?”
“Yep,” Seamus grunted. “Another benefit of not being bloodthirsty fucking terrorists. What would you even tell the imps if you were so inclined? That we’re sitting in here plotting to be their friends? That we wouldn’t let you go off on a crusade to kill a random footsoldier and die in a blaze of glory? You walk out of here, and we’re done. End of story.”
Tommy’s weight shifted in his chair. He could stand up now, and that would be the last he heard of this crazy idea. He put both hands on the table, about to rise.
“Say, Tommy,” Danny pulled a file from his pocket and worked it across the sides of one of his nails. They were well-kept, Tommy noticed.
“Hmm?” he acknowledged, pausing.
“Why didn’t you do anything earlier, back when the imps arrived? If you hate the wrinklies so much, I mean.”
“Why didn’t I…”
Why hadn’t he? He knew the answer to the question, and he hated it.
“I’m just saying,” Danny kept his eyes down, watching his work as he moved on to the next manicured nail. It gleamed in the light from the bulb above the table, and Tommy realized that there was polish on each of those nails. “You’ve had a full year between then and now. Why not try your hand at killing one sooner?”
The black pit formed again, a familiar hollowness in his gut. It had been with him since that day. The day everything went wrong. Cold, empty.
He couldn’t go back to that.
This alternative though…
“I’ve heard about the kinds of men who spend their time around the aliens,” Tommy said, ignoring the question. “All dressed up in the bars downtown, thirsting after any woman who can ‘give them a ride in her spaceship’. I hated the idea of people like that existing. How many of those men were working for you?”
“We can’t say,” Danny answered, while Seamus continued to stare at the door with a detached expression. “But at least some of them may have been ours. Or working with similar groups. It’s hard to organize with the wrinklies breathing down our necks, but those of us who are left agree on most things. Like how bombs won’t win us this war.”
“I cursed them out,” Tommy admitted. “Plenty of us did, online. You want me to become one of them. How do I know I wouldn’t be treated the same way?”
“You will,” Danny said bluntly. “You’ll be spat on. Treated like crap. Some of your friends will leave you. It only strengthens our position. If the aliens learn you’ve been ostracized for fraternizing with them, they’ll be all the more upset on your behalf.”
“I don’t have many friends these days,” Tommy admitted. I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this. Despite himself, he sank back into the chair fully again, and Seamus’ eyes moved back across to look at him. “What good would letting an alien chick get in my pants even do?” he asked.
“That’s the beauty of it,” Danny answered. “These aliens, the whole galaxy of them, they’re used to a gender ratio of one to twelve, right? They’re used to sharing mate. Some of our lads have half a dozen kespan soldiers wrapped around their little fingers already. You just need to know how to play the game.”
“Which is where Danny comes in,” Seamus finally spoke. “He’s a full bottle on kespan women and their habits. Knows a fair bit about some of the other aliens slithering around out there, too. He’ll walk you through everything if you’ve decided to help with the war effort after all.”
“I’m still thinking about it,” Tommy found himself saying.
“We’re not discussing anything more with you unless you’re at least willing to give it a shot,” Seamus said. “This is your ride-or-die moment Tommy. Humanity is on the brink. Now is a time when heroes are made.
“My idea of heroics and yours are apparently a bit different,” Tommy snorted.
Seamus shrugged. “Not all heroes wear capes Tommy. Not all of them do things they’re comfortable with either. As happy as I am to hear about our sisters up north finding ways to make the Imperium bleed, we can’t just keep lobbing the galactic equivalent of rocks at the aliens until they piss off.”
He sighed, then continued. “The truth is that we’ve made next to no headway reverse-engineering their weapons tech. Whatever fabrication technology they use to construct their stuff, it’s miles ahead of our 3D printers, and as soon as we come anywhere close to a breakthrough, whatever hole in the ground we’ve dug for our researchers is swarming in wrinkly bitches before you can say ‘free catnip’. Things are looking bad for humanity, Tommy. We need to make it off this planet and find some friends. Preferably before too much time passes, and we start to get comfortable with the Imperium’s leash around our necks. People are quick to forget the past when it suits them.”
“How could anyone forget—“
“There’s an old saying from a novel I quite like.” Seamus interrupted. “‘Hard times create strong men’. We’re strong now, even if it doesn’t look that way. Give us a few generations of alien television, and we’ll be as Imperial as the next planet along. Our boys will grow up as pretty little ornaments for the whole galaxy to ogle at. Earth will be Ervamir 3, and humanity will leech off the tit of the Empire’s pity until we become dependent on them for everything. That’s what we’re fighting against, Tommy. We’re not just in this for revenge, our identity is at stake here.”
Revenge was easier. Tempting, too, in a way that Tommy imagined the bottle of beer in his hand might be for a recovering alcoholic. Just one dead kespan and you’ll feel better. Don’t worry about tomorrow. Just a sip.
“I’ve made my decision,” he said.
“Good lad,” Seamus grunted. “What’ll it be?”
Tommy stood up, turned around and walked straight out the door.
---
Jel
He had a problem.
“It’s not a big deal sweetie,” Skara rubbed at his elbow.
“Of course it’s a big deal!” Honestly, it was the stuff of nightmares. He’d been a fool to accept the invitation with an offer to host the human at dinnertime. He wanted to scream in frustration, but he settled for a frustrated grumble as he stared at the menu screen of the ordering app. Unacceptable. I am a Mar'miar! I’ve cooked for low royalty before! Is this all I have to work with? Fabbed protein blocks and fake gravy? What do humans even eat?
“I’m sure she will understand dear,” Skara sighed, padding over to the low couches that would serve as their dining area— another setback. The room was outfitted more akin to a hotel than a home. “She’s an Imperial soldier, remember? She’ll have been eating with the rest of the troops since enlisting.”
“That just makes this even more of a missed opportunity,” Jel grumbled, tapping at his chin with a claw. “I was hoping to source some proper food and drink planetside, but all we have is ship gruel.”
“It was a long voyage to get here,” Skara pointed out. “And the fleet size is only growing. I bet even the Admirals are eating the fabbed stuff.”
“No chance,” Jel rolled his eyes. “Bigwigs always find a way to eat well, it’s half the reason they climb the ranks. Although…” he stopped his pacing, then snatched up his communicator. “If we’re lucky, that might work in our favour.”
One frantic request for fresh ingredients and twenty terse minutes later, a response slid into his inbox.
“Oh…”
“What is it dearest?”
“The Admiralty says they've already made arrangements for food. She’s bringing food from her country’s cuisine,” Jel frowned.
Skara’s eyes lit up. “Real food? That’s great news! I can’t wait.”
“Hmm…”
“Why do you sound so disappointed?” she blinked, tilting her head to the side.
“Well, it's just a strange dynamic," he scratched his head. "She approached us to offer the interview, we're hosting and she's bringing food. It puts me on a strange footing. I also don’t get a chance to show off my cooking this way.” Jel sighed. “I was looking forward to trying something new with Earth ingredients. I know the Admiralty will have some stored away somewhere. I thought I might—"
“Dearest…”
“Yes love?”
“We don’t have a kitchen.”
Oh. His cheeks were warm. No kitchen. What a funny thought.
“Sweetie?”
Of course, there’d be no kitchen in a VIP suite on board a frigate; why would anyone assume otherwise?
“Hello? Jelli-bo? Flight tower to Jelakka, do you read me?”
They’d have to be an idiot to imagine such a thing, let alone to request ingredients from the Admiralty themselves to cook in said imaginary kitchen. That would be terribly embarrassing.
“Jel?” Skara’s fingers found his own, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. The dam broke.
“I hate space!” he cried out, slumping down onto the couch beside his wife.
“You… hate space?” Skara was clearly trying not to laugh, but it still came out as an incredulous snicker.
“It’s cramped, there’s no natural light and nothing to do, my wardrobe is old, my nails are chipping, the food is shit, and everything smells like farts! I hate it!” Jel held his head in his hands and rubbed his temples, his cheeks and the tips of his ears still flushing bright crimson. He glared at the ship’s bulkhead, its metal the same monochromatic grey as the rest of the ship’s walls. “I can’t wait to get planetside.”
“It’s not all bad,” Skara attempted hesitantly, but he huffed.
He grumped. “It’s throwing me off my game! I’m a professional, damn it!”
Skara waited a moment as her husband’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. After a while, she wound her arms around his waist, and he let her pull him across into her lap in a gentle hug.
“Feeling better now?” she asked.
“A bit,” he admitted. “I’m done complaining at least. But let the record show that once we’re home, I’ll be sticking to the core worlds. No more deep space voyages.”
“I’m sure it’s just the circumstances dear,” Skara patted his hand, her arms still around him. “This whole business is enough to leave anyone frazzled.”
There was a knock on the door, and both of their heads sprung up.
“It’s far too early to be the human,” Skara said, rising from the couch and approaching the door to answer. When it slid open, she was greeted by the impartial gaze of a uniformed kespan officer.
The woman at the door inclined her head in greeting. “Good afternoon. Is this the room where one Jelakka Mar’miar is staying? I have some important business to discuss ahead of his interview tonight.”
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