by Ivan Ertlov
Much more realistic than their own.
A plasma grenade detonated barely five metres from their cover, melting snow into water, vaporising it, and sending a glowing hot cloud in their direction that took even Dilara's breath away for a moment.
But really only briefly.
Casually she shot the pirate who was about to reload his grenade launcher and turned back to Frank.
"Seriously now, why is the Queen so pissed off? Even you can't be so shitty in bed that she sends her entire army after us!"
Frank swallowed hard, raised his arms imploringly and shook his head so vehemently that a ricochet missed him by a few millimetres because of this movement.
"No, Dila, it wasn't that. Before she fell asleep, she called me her two-legged bull and was full of praise. Waking up, on the other hand - well, that was another story."
With a mixture of amazement and curiosity, the astrotelepath widened her eyes. Then, without even looking in the direction of the enemies, she shot a fellow Tarjah buccaneer through the left ear, causing an angry cry of pain. So loud that it almost drowned out Dila's next question.
But only almost.
"All right, out with it: what were you doing, and why with Moo-Tasha the Mad, of all people?"
Frank shot a Durash the antifreeze on his already fragile body and scratched briefly behind his ear.
"You know we ran out of milk three days ago, and there's not a single dairy on the whole damn planet ..."
Dilara lowered her gun and gave him one of those looks usually reserved for people who fell asleep drunk in the afterburner of a space shuttle.
"You MILKED the pirate queen?"
Frank reached into his side pocket and triumphantly pulled out the thermos. The heavy thermos.
"You bet! I got almost two litres out of her udder before she woke up - and completely freaked out."
Dilara's anger and rage at his recklessness fenced a short but intense bouquet with the idea of having to drink breakfast coffee without milk. The verdict was clear.
"Okay, your motive was noble and good, but your methods are something we desperately need to discuss ..."
They get no further, for a series of detonations blasts rock and ice, swirls snow into metre-high clouds, shatters their cover. Quick-witted, they take advantage of the chaos, run back several steps, throw themselves behind another boulder that promises protection for at least a few seconds.
The cloud dissipates, the view becomes clear - and reveals what they both already suspect: The enemy is attacking!
Twenty-five subnebula pirates are firing from all guns, running down the slope - and they do it with worrying discipline. Hooves and legs, pseudopods and supporting branches move in military drilled harmony. The heavily armoured, well-protected fighters in front, partly guarded by assault shields, the agile close combatants and snipers approach from behind.
The barrage is perfectly laid, giving Frank and Dila not even a hint of a chance to escape, suppressing their mobility, limiting even their meagre return fire.
The Subnebula Pirates advance, and they do so in a tight wedge formation, step by step, volley by volley.
Scalding hot steam reddens Frank's cheeks; the smell of molten impurities from the rock pierces his nose.
Dilara gasps.
They fire one or two more shots, daring a furtive glance in the direction of the enemy.
This one marches on in a tight throng. No trace of the chaotic, rowdy approach with which they previously hunted their queen's abuser - no, they are a force, a military force, perhaps even one of the most dangerous in the Rim Worlds.
They keep their eyes on their goal, move even closer together, concentrate fully on their task - to kill Frank Gazer and Dilara Kreethan, to lay the human's remains at the feet of their queen.
They do not hear the low hum in the sky behind them; they do not see the shadow that falls on them, slowly growing larger and larger ...
... and when they see him, it is already too late.
Hundreds of tons of exotic alloys and alien technologies sink to the plain, crushing Gulptar and Toronk, Borsht and Durash, pirates, armour and weapons. Bones splinter, chests burst, micro-grenades detonate and tear their wearers apart.
The ship is unimpressed by this.
It sinks into the snow, burying the bodies of the Subnebula Pirates beneath it, and a shimmering silver opening appears from which a ramp slides towards the ground.
With the assault rifle in his right hand, his shaggy fur ruffled by the icy wind, Troshk leaves Yrsha's body and waves to his friends.
"All done - let's get out of here!"
He pauses, glances down, sees blood and slime, jelly and resin spreading under Yrsha's torso into an ever-larger varnish.
"Mission accomplished, and I see that you have indeed provided the appropriate distraction. What happened here?"
"Frank got us some milk."
Oh look, the hundred distant suns!
Behold the planets that revolve!
Far from law and order
Our friendship will evolve.
No arm of the unjust law,
no spy's eye reaches to the Rim.
Out here, we have our own rules,
shaped by tribal resin, love, and sin!
Gone are my flight and journey,
my hiding in the dark,
here, the tax authority investigator,
can lick my rough, rough bark!
- Trunk of Wax, "Ode to the Rim Worlds", ca. 1020 AT
2.
You'll be hearing from my lawyer!
Splinter City, Metropolis of the Protectorate
Audience and interrogation rooms of the speaker
(A rather bad-tempered speaker)
"Help me out again on the pairs of legs, dear board members, so that I understand this correctly - you have lost how many miners?"
Tribala the Balancer winced violently at the soft, almost flattering undertone in Aarashkvachora's voice, contracting her segments and unconsciously clicking a defensive sound. Similar conversations with the Council Speaker had trained her instincts accordingly, warned her that this was the calm before the storm. Matosh and his obligatory assault rifle were no threat here, no, rather vague insurance against being eaten on the spot by Aarashkvachora.
Unfortunately, Tribala's colleague was neither as empathetic nor as cautious as she was. That was in the nature of things - traditionally, psychopaths, go-getters, and sociopaths held the coveted post of CEO, while the finance department was run by cool heads or, as in Tribala's case, cool-headed segments.
And so the supreme leader of the Mining Consortium did not see disaster coming, did not feel the salt shaker hovering over his head at all. No, Lobush even boldly stretched his pseudo-pods upwards, fixed the Council Speaker without a hint of remorse, and stated the facts.
Unadorned, but put into perspective.
"Just under twelve hundred in total, but only three hundred of them had non-human status. So we have experience of risking mainly expendable material; NHS mostly applies only to experts and leaders."
The next mistake; the next wince from Tribala, this time better kept under control. Every political insider knew that the Council Speaker was, at least officially, firmly opposed to speciesism. So to call nine hundred lost people expendable material to her was either very brave - or simply suicidal.
But Aarashkvachora still maintained her mask of professional friendliness.
"And this for a mining operation in the Rim Worlds, if I understand correctly. An unreported and unauthorised operation, or are the records sketchy on that?"
Lobush pulled his temporarily formed mouth apart into a winning, decidedly confident smile. What a maniac!
"Dear Council Speaker, with all due respect, the Protectorate has no legal sovereignty in the Rim Worlds. There are no import or export bans, no trade regulations that govern our operations in the Rim. Just like any small Consortium or the free traders, we can mine and trade there. Therefore, our legal d
epartment believes that no permit is necessary."
"So, they believe that?"
Tribala tightened her segments even more as the Council Speaker's voice took on a dangerous, cutting undertone. And she was far from finished.
"It may be that there is no jurisdiction on the ground, at least none that would apply to all Rim Wolds. No executive, no military force to keep order. The Gobosh Syndicate and the Subnebula Pirates, the lone wolves and small associations, soldiers of fortune and freebooters, even the Trafura mercenaries - they are all weak, regional forces. But what are they together?"
"Scum?"
"No, a great power. A great neutral power that we neither want to anger nor court. And why not?"
Tribala guessed what the speaker was getting at.
"Because that would upset the Plachtharr?"
"Exactly. Not even ten months ago, we were on the precipice, just one wrong word away from all-out war. The peace we all enjoy today is also based on the mutual promise not to expand. If the Mining Consortium starts operating in the Rim Worlds ..."
Lobush interrupted the speaker with pseudo-pods shooting up indignantly, which in turn made Matosh take a very conspicuous step forward and a subtle grip on his gun belt.
"We are a private company! We have no official function in the Protectorate!"
"No official function, exactly. But about two-thirds of all war-related resources pass through the mining Consortium. The Plachtharr probably know the exact figure better than I do. Appearances are enough, and they are clear - a Consortium operation is a Protectorate operation. In other words, all business activity in the Rim Worlds is to cease immediately."
"I protest! I protest in the strongest possible terms! This is an unlawful interference with private enterprise! Unlawful! Tyranny!"
Tribala discreetly, but deliberately, crawled two steps away from her CEO who had clearly lost his mind, elegantly indicating the distance between them. If he became the speaker's dinner tonight - well, so much the better. But the latter obviously had no intention of tasting Lobush's depraved nature. No, her plans were much crueller.
"Matosh, what is our cost for military protection of trade routes and systems used exclusively or almost exclusively by the Mining Consortium?"
"Around half a million mineral units - per month."
The answer came so quickly that Tribala did not have to be a genius to see how well prepared the speaker had come into this interrogation.
"And how much did we spend last year on cleaning up environmental damage in Protectorate systems caused by the Consortium?"
"Thirteen million MU, Speaker."
Aarashkvachora clicked contentedly and pulled her segments apart until she had reached her full size of three metres. Then, dangerously slowly, she bent forward, and her mandibles came within biting distance of Lobush's pseudopodia.
"That's a total of nineteen million, with the administrative expenses, we come to twenty. So you can expect the bill in the next few days. And it won't be the last."
The previously as confident as he was self-righteous CEO slumped, became a small green-brown blob from which only a half-heartedly formed voice dome protruded.
"All right, what do you want?"
The Council Speaker hoisted her hand indignantly - and it was not because Lobush had forgotten the Talash's courtesy form in his submission.
"What do I want? Satisfied, prosperous peoples on all Protectorate worlds, lasting peace with the Plachtharr and an endless supply of Shrava larvae who jump joyfully into my mouth of their own accord. What I demand? An immediate cessation of all operations by the Mining Consortium in the Rim Worlds, withdrawal from any system that does not at least have an association agreement with the Protectorate. In addition, immediate payment of generous bridging funds to the relatives of the missing. And if, the Great Steppe forbid, they cannot be found alive, or at all, compensation to the value of a life's earnings."
The chairman reared back one last time.
"This - this is ruinous! At least two per cent of our annual operating profit, you can't ..."
That was as far as he got. Then, with the speed of a Tarjahkrish jumping rat, the head segment of the Council Speaker sprang forward, mandibles were torn apart, and the throat ripped wide open. Lobush lost a part of himself. Whimpering, yet still insulted, the rest slumped down while Aarashkvachora swallowed the disgusting-tasting pseudopod before giving Tribala a grim look.
The Balancer was smarter than her board colleague, leaned forward and clicked unconditional approval and loyalty.
"Will be done later today, Speaker, with urgent instructions. Shall we also launch a search and rescue operation?"
Aarashkvachora stoically wrestled down her nausea and let her antennae swing slowly from side to side.
"No, we cannot risk an operation by the Mining Consortium, as I said before. Neither any mission driven by the police or military forces of the Protectorate."
Although she understood where the sandstorm was coming from, Tribala clicked with honest astonishment.
"You want to leave the missing to their fate?"
The Council Speaker hoisted her hands indignantly.
"Of course not! But this is a mission in no man's land, a delicate task for specialists. For professionals with the proper intelligence, sensitivity, and diplomatic skills."
*
"... and that's why Frank, the dumbest worm on the leaf, picked up Moo-Tasha, laid her, and then milked her without warning or consent."
"The mating behaviour of your various peoples is utterly fascinating, and it never ceases to amaze how many different expressions and what a colourful vocabulary you have for the simple act of procreation."
In essence, Yrsha was not wrong, as Frank had to admit inwardly as he carefully manoeuvred her to the docking ramp of the trading ring and anchored her. But, nevertheless, he saw it as his duty to defend all copulating beings of the galaxy.
"It's not always about procreation as such, actually only very rarely. So, sure, we follow that drive, but it's also about social interaction, deepening relationships, and ..."
"... and sometimes you're just horny."
As far too often before, Dila had the last word - but Frank had the first hand on the box, their secret treasure in the cargo hold. Not that he alone could move it - the thing was two by two metres wide and more than one high. It took both his hands and Troshk's mighty paws to manoeuvre it onto the antigrav hover. Together they pushed their prey into the corridor to the airlock where they stared into the beaming face of Özgür, who welcomed them effusively with two of his Borsht gorillas in tow.
"The heroes of the hour are back! What a joy, what a sight! Well, I am talking about my box, of course, but your faces are delightful too."
Bettsy hoisted contemptuously and pulled her segments apart, making herself half a metre taller. For some, a subtle threat; for others, the normal negotiating pose.
"Save the flattery! A simple courier service, my ass, just picking up a package - who on Grarosh's moons places such a box under five tons of rock, and at the ass end of the Rim Worlds to boot, where Subnebula Pirates and Trafura mercenaries cut each other's throats?"
"Someone who wants to trade but doesn't want to give away their location."
Özgür winked at them conspiratorially as he spoke, his eyes twinkling just like the shiny black strands on his head.
Hair gel or Durash slime, that was the question here.
But none that interested Frank - which did not mean that his curiosity was satisfied. However, it revolved around a completely different topic than the hairstyle preferences of his shisha-smoking business partner.
"All right, we got your stuff - despite one or two unpleasant surprises. So what the fuck is in that fucking box? I swear to Spongebob, if this is some illegal stuff ..."
The space merchant laughed out loud and shook his head so violently that a small plug came loose from his hair and landed splat on the synth steel a good metre beside him.
; Durash slime, after all.
"Frank, oh Frank, my esteemed fellow human, what do you think of me? I'm only a few thousand mineral units away from registering my own moon - well, as a minority owner, because of the Lex, you know what I mean. Do you seriously think I'm going to risk a smuggling trial?"
There was something to it, they all had to admit. And somehow, the good mood of their counterpart was contagious.
"As you know, my racial comrade, we may have lost the war then ..."
Dilara snorted.
"May have lost the war? We almost wiped you out, vaporised your home system, roasted your forces like a well-crumbed Viennese schnitzel ..."
Özgür nodded eagerly.
"Exactly, Vienna, that's the perfect buzzword here. A thousand or two thousand years before the Protectorate blew up the city along with our entire planet, the metropolis was besieged by my ancestors. A formidable force, led by our Sultan, faced a paltry bunch of defenders, most of them no more than hastily armed city guards. The enemy emperor had long since fled, and our miners dug under the city. So, yes, we set about taking Vienna and with it all of Europe."
"Successfully?"
It was obvious that he now had Troshk's undivided attention. A good war story was hard for the Stormcommander to resist.
"Almost successfully. Just as we were about to storm the city, tens of thousands of winged Poles swooped in and destroyed our camp."
Frank frowned.
"Winged Poles? What's that supposed to be?"
"I don't know, probably some genetically engineered super soldiers or human-bird hybrids. Either way, our forces were defeated, but they left something important behind in their tactical retreat."
