The Furry MEGAPACK®

by Huskyteer

  Bucky went from placid to choleric in an instant. “What do you mean, next week!? I don’t give a damn for your human holiday; we’re ready to leave right now!”

  The human shrugged patronizingly. “Really, this is a historic occasion! The uniting of the two greatest human space empires! Anyhow, only the Port Master or someone higher can sign your clearance papers, and he’s already gone. We’ll see you next week!” With that, the comscreen went blank.

  Bucky stared unbelievingly at the screen for a moment, then tried to reconnect to the Port Master’s office. The screen stayed blank. Bucky punched furiously at the connect button for a few moments, then screamed and pounded on the whole control panel before getting up to stalk around the control room. Akkk’rrchk, who was used to Bucky’s outbursts, stood quietly aside, idly grooming his fur. Bucky, whose tantrums were short-lived, turned to him saying, “Historic occasion be damned! We’re not going to lose a week just sitting here! I’ll go up there and stomp around until someone signs our clearance papers just to get rid of us!”

  For thousands of years, ever since their never-forgotten civil war had split the human space empire into two independent realms, there had been abortive attempts at reconciliation; some almost succeeding, others degenerating into new feuding. At last, despite a few unreconstructed warmongers, it looked as though the peacemakers would win. The emperors of both human space nations had agreed to merge. The largely symbolic climax of the merger would be the wedding of the New Empire’s young royal heir—that Emperor’s grand-nephew—with the Old Empire’s young princess; popularly believed to be a genuine love affair rather than just an arranged marriage. The humans of both space empires were wildly enthusiastic, and in the two capital cities, all businesses were closing for a weeklong festival.

  Akkk’rrchk assumed that he would be assigned to watch over the Dobleth while Bucky was gone, but “I’ll” turned out to mean “we’re”. Bucky pressed the ship’s intercom. “Rru’gg? Get up here, to the control room. Akkk’rrchk and I are going out, and you’re in charge until we get back!” The intercom gave out a piercing whistle and chirp that meant, “WOW! Yessir!”

  The young Rru’gg, the Dobleth’s most junior crewman and the youngest of Bucky’s clan out of puberty, arrived at a lope, beaming eagerly. Akkk’rrchk glanced disapprovingly at his gaudy lavender vest and electric blue harness. The ch’rr’pt youth had “gone human”. The otteroids had adopted many human customs and devices since the two spacegoing cultures had met, but with their thick, dark brown pelts, the ch’rr’pt had no use for human clothing. That had not kept some of them from going overboard on what the humans called “fashions”. Their traditional utilitarian vests and harnesses had been as brown as their fur. Since meeting humans, many ch’rr’p— the younger ones in particular—had taken to offsetting their fur with embroidered and brightly-colored (clashing, if possible) vests and harnesses; some with flashing lights. Akkk’rrchk thanked his Gods that the brief fad for styled fur had not lasted long.

  It turned out that Rru’gg had exaggerated notions of how much authority he would have while Bucky and Akkk’rrchk were gone. The Dobleth’s crew were already familiar with his attempts at initiative. “Do you want me to—” “No.” “Well, I can—” “No.” “Um. How about if I—” “NO! Just keep watch and don’t touch anything. The humans have closed their Port Master’s office for the next week, so we shouldn’t get any calls, but if we do, just answer that we’re out and take a message for our return.”

  * * * *

  The two ch’rr’pt—Bucky with his first mate trailing along—went to get their papers signed. Frustratingly, it seemed that the Port Master’s flunky knew what he was talking about. By now, the dock area was completely deserted. All the humans from the most influential to the lowest peon had left for the better areas of the city where the festival was in full swing. The capital’s main square was filled with celebrants dancing exuberantly around the clock, awhirl flashing with glittery body-lights during the nighttime hours.

  Finally, Bucky and Akkk’rrchk found a drunkard and his bottle sleeping it off in one of the spaceport’s loading areas. The two ch’rr’pt exchanged dubious looks, then Bucky kicked him awake.

  “Yaaahh!” The drunk was momentarily terrified at being awakened by two furry, ferocious-looking, human-sized, pseudo-otters looming over him.

  Akkk’rrchk left the talking to the more fluent Captain Bucky. “Hey, you!”, he said in heavily-accented human. “Where can we find somebody in authority around here?”

  “Uhh…the Port Master’s office, I guess?”

  The drunkard waved in the direction of a public information screen. Unfortunately, it just unhelpfully told them to contact the “always open” Port Master’s office.

  The whole city was not celebrating. In the New Empire’s imperial palace, the elderly Emperor paced nervously as the time to leave for the big wedding approached. The long-desired reuniting of the two empires was popular with the people, but a few diehards among the nobility of both nations had opposed it for as long as they could. Some wanted the Old Empire and the New Empire to remain separate interstellar nations. Others approved a merger, but not as equals. They wanted their own nation’s aristocracy—and themselves—to be the upper-class of the reunited empire. It had taken decades of negotiations, but finally everything had been agreed upon to almost everyone’s satisfaction. There was still loud political griping from reactionaries among the out-of-office minority. The New Empire’s monarch just hoped that all would go as planned. “It would be nice if my grand-nephew were older, but he’s shown that he can handle the responsibility,” the Emperor mused. “They say that the Old Empire’s Princess is an intelligent girl, too.”

  A couple of hours later, the two ch’rr’pt had not exactly given up, but they were taking a break in a bar that was still open on the fringe of the festival—fortunately, alcohol was popular with both species. Bucky and Akkk’rrchk were discussing what to try next when they were surprised by a fancily-dressed, slightly tipsy human joining their conversation in fluent ch’rr’pt.

  “You sound like you’ve got a problem that can’t wait until the end of the festival.”

  Bucky was in no mood for friendly chit-chat. “You look like you’re some kind of aristocrat. Are you authorized to sign a spaceship’s clearance papers?”

  “Alas, no. I’m not even from here. I’m a cookie-pusher, a member of the Terrestrial delegation to the New Empire. I am, frankly, slumming.” Bucky tuned him out.

  “However, I do think that I can help you.” Bucky tuned him back in again. “Anybody high-ranking enough to sign those papers will be in the palace by now for the wedding ceremony, which is in just a couple of hours,” he told Bucky. “I have to get back to the Terrestrial delegation there. I can get you past the guards with me. You can wait at the back of the crowd until the ceremony is over, and then grab some big shot as they’re leaving and have him or her sign your papers.”

  The vast throne room was already packed when they arrived, with diplomats and both empires’ aristocracies, waiting to watch the ceremonial wedding of state of the barely-adolescent New Empire’s Prince to the Old Empire’s Princess that would unite the two interstellar nations. But the crowd also contained those who were not happy about it, and had not given up loudly protesting the union in their political rants—plus others who were quietly planning to turn the festivities to their own advantage.

  The lushly-dressed Baron of Happy Valley—he hated that saccharine name, but the title had been in his family for generations, and it did make it easier for him to pose as a benevolent philanthropist—smiled thinly as Duval, his henchman, forced his way through the crowd toward him. Duval, sweating, nodded toward a large ornate bust of some long-forgotten nobleman, positioned toward the rear of the throne room near where one of the higher-ranking dignitaries had chosen to be with his supporters rather than where his rank entitled him to be.

  The Baron was displeased by Duval’s nervousness, but the h
enchman was well-known as his closest retainer, and any other aide might be noticed and raise awkward questions. The Baron planned to discreetly get rid of Duval as soon as he could. Duval whispered what the Baron already knew: “The bomb isn’t in the bust, sir, it is the bust! It’s a copy, made of explosive plastic!”

  The Baron grinned inwardly with satisfaction. The explosion would be blamed on the extremists who opposed any union, and the Baron was well-known to favor it. He really did; he just wanted to be in charge of it. Duval continued to stage-whisper what they both knew: “After the Duke is killed, you’ll be the next logical choice for appointment as the Prince’s guardian, sir. Then you can make sure that the Emperor has a fatal accident while his heir is still young enough to need a regent, which will be you…”

  The Baron frowned at this reminder of his supposed “friend”. The Duke of Brightwater was one of the New Empire’s leading liberals; a staunch supporter of the faction that believed in the amicable merger of the two nations. The Baron had posed as one of his non-political social allies, all the while secretly supporting the Duke’s enemies. He was the real leader of those who denigrated the Duke as “the Duke of Bilgewater”, portraying him as that ancient fictional scoundrel and con-man, clearly untrustworthy. Yet it had not worked. The Duke of Brightwater was too famous for his honesty and his provable good deeds to be a convincing target for slander. Well, after tonight the Baron would not have to worry about the Duke. He would tearfully take up the martyred Duke’s mantle.

  The two ch’rr’pt and the Terrestrial delegate arrived shortly before the imperial wedding was due to start. The huge throne room’s main entrance was flanked by ceremonial but alert royal guards, but the Terrestrial delegate’s diplomatic ID enabled the three to enter past them. They paused before mixing into the crowd. “Well, this is where we part,” their benefactor told the two otteroids. “I have to join the other Terry diplomats. You can make your way to the rear of the room and look for a likely official while you wait until the wedding is over, then get them to sign your papers before leaving.”

  Akkk’rrchk looked slightly confused by the change of tenses, but Bucky was used to the vagaries of the human language. He gruffly thanked the Terry “cookie-pusher”; then he and Akkk’rrchk squeezed their way through the mostly-human crowd to the rear of the throne room, causing a few raised eyebrows as some human guests wondered how the two ch’rr’pt had gotten invitations. Akkk’rrchk supposed that the brightly garbed aristocrats were examples of the pinnacle of the human “fashions” that the “gone human” ch’rr’pt hoped to emulate. He shuddered, imagining himself with his thick fur also smothered in unnecessary and sweltering clothing.

  They found a good spot to watch the wedding and scan the crowd, except that it was mostly filled with a big, imposing bust in poor taste. After finding it in their way, whichever way they turned, Bucky told Akkk’rrchk, “Let’s move this aside”. The two otteroids manhandled it into a corner, incidentally away from the group of humans nearby.

  The Baron and Duval stiffened in alarm. The Baron called over a palace functionary and angrily asked, “Who are those aliens? Get them out of here, and put that bust back where it belongs!”

  “Yes, sir!” To hear is to obey, was the functionary’s motto. He went with a couple of guards to escort Bucky and Akkk’rrchk out of the throne room. Bucky, who was quietly fuming at what he considered wasted time, exploded noisily. The Baron watched from a distance as the otteroid’s body language made it clear that the two ch’rr’pt were not going to leave peacefully. The functionary, hoping to keep everything quiet, tried to pass the buck. “It’s the Baron’s order! You’ll have to talk to him about it!”, he said, pointing toward the nobleman and his nervous assistant.

  The real scoundrel, also hoping to deflect attention, tried to brazen it out. He strode majestically towards the group around the two ch’rr’pt, dragging Duval with him. “What are you two doing here?”, he hissed. “I’m sure that no non-humans were invited to this event—even non-human nobility, which you clearly aren’t!”

  “I’m Captain Brr’ttcheerpt of the Victory of Dobleth at the spaceport…” Bucky started to explain at as little length as he could. The Baron listened impatiently, then cut him off.

  “I don’t care! That’s not our concern! Even if you were invited in by one of the Terrestrial delegates, he had no authority to bring you into the throne room! You have to leave NOW!”

  Bucky did what he always did when he lost his temper. He began shouting, which of course drew attention, and pounding on the nearest thing—which in this case was the explosive bust. At that point, the increasingly-nervous Duval, who did not really understand explosives, totally panicked. “NO!”, he shouted. “YOU’LL BLOW US ALL UP!” He turned and began to frantically push his way through the crowd, which began to stir with alarm.

  The Baron tried to bluster the situation back under his control, but it was too late. The guards were confused, but their standard orders covered this. In case of what even looked like a suspicious event, grab everybody involved and wait for Higher Authority to sort it out. In this case, no waiting was necessary. Duval was babbling the details of the plot to anyone who would listen. The nearby humans backed away hastily from the bust, the guards dragging the Baron, Duval, and the two otteroids with them.

  Bucky, who did understand explosives, shook himself free of the human guards. “It’s all right!”, he said exasperatedly. “It’s a safety explosive! It needs a detonator to be dangerous!” Even so the humans, guests and guards alike, showed signs of imminent panicking. “Oh, for the Gods’ sake!”, Bucky muttered, then called aloud, “Here, Akkk’rrchik, you help me!”

  The other ch’rr’pt didn’t know much more about explosives than anyone else, but he trusted his captain. Bucky realized that, as long as the Baron was willing to stand next to the bust, it was not likely to go off. Even so, the two lost no time in turning the bust onto its side and looking for the explosive timer hidden in it. “I hope you know what you’re talking about, Cap’n,” the first mate said quietly in ch’rr’pt as they found something out of place. Bucky did not answer, but pulled out the object. “Here,” he said in human, thrusting the detonator into a startled guard’s hands. “Make yourself useful. Take this thing out of here!” The guard did so, as quickly as he could, hurling it into an ornamental fountain.

  Explanations were made, although the Baron’s furious glowering at Duval and the sight of Duval in hysterics made them largely unnecessary. The Duke, who had been quietly watching, thanked Bucky and Akkk’rrchk for foiling the Baron’s plot to play the liberal and conservative factions against each other. Bucky protested impatiently, “I’m not interested in human politics! I just want to get our damned clearance papers signed and get back to ch’rr’pt space.”

  The young Prince stepped forward. “After what you’ve done today, let me sign your papers!” Bucky bent down, and the Prince solemnly signed the electronic document.

  A little while later, after the interrupted wedding ceremony was resumed and completed and the cheers had died away, the Duke turned to his opposite number among the aristocrats of the Old Empire and said, “After thousands of years, no more ‘Old’ and ‘New’ Empires, but a single United Empire once again!” They drank to it.

  Bucky and Akkk’rrchk were not there to hear him. Victory of Dobleth was just lifting from human space to return to its ch’rr’pt homeland.

  IN THE DAYS OF THE WITCH-QUEENS, by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

  After the lions of the Veldt first became people, things went well for many generations. Some say this time was a golden age of peace for the prides, an era without conflict or strife. Others say that their new way of life as people merely distracted the lions from war for a time. Still others say that the small struggles of this early period were simply forgotten in the aftermath of the great conflicts that followed.

  Whatever the reason, there are few stories of war from that age. Then, as with the first signs of the winter rain, t
he stories of conflict begin. One drop, another, a third. Then a deluge. The River rises and overflows its banks, threatening to drown the world in chaos.

  And running hunt with the chaos of the storm came the witch-queens…

  * * * *

  Even here, deep under the earth, he smells it. The stink of blood. The cloying, sticky scent of death.

  “I hate them. Hate them all.”

  The young lion’s voice cracks, and he curses his weakness. He fists his paws against his eyes and wills himself not to cry. Crying won’t rebuild the huts or restore the flocks. Crying won’t turn the she-devils away. Crying won’t bring the dead back to life.

  He feels a roar build deep in his chest, a roar of utter grief. A paw rests on his arm, and he stops himself. He is not alone. At least he was able to sneak the pride’s shamaness, Lady Irula, to safety.

  “Still your hate, Farinoor.”

  The name once stung. Farinoor. Little cub. He was a runt and came into his adulthood late. Now his head brushes against a ceiling five cubits high. There is tenderness in the female’s voice. What his pride-brothers had meant as an insult is now a gentle call to center himself. To be humble and bide his time.

  He forces himself to take in slow breaths through the mouth. He can taste the blood in the air, the blood of his pride. Aunts and sisters, uncles and brothers. The youth who once teased him, dead in the mud. Even the cubs, dead. Even his womb-brother.

  His grief washes over him and his knees give way. He sinks to the floor of the dirt cave.

  Lady Irula hisses at him. “Enough. You are not a cub.” She takes hold of his ear, claws prickling against its tenderest parts. “I know what happens when you lose control.”

  Her words are a slap in the face. It was his fault. All of this, the destruction of his pride is his fault. The wrath of the Ancestors rained down on them all for what he has done. For what he is.

  Irula’s tone softens. “All is not lost. Your pridemother has escaped, her eldest daughters with her. We do not know how many others.”