Star Kitten Page 14

  To some couples, she was able to be a catalyst in opening up new sexual horizons for their relationship. In some cases she might even bring out the suppressed bisexual tendencies of the male—or female—and connect those urges to their spouse’s willingness to accept their spouse’s real sexual self. If you asked her, Felina would likely explain it like this, “I just demonstrate to couples how to experience the deep spiritual joy of identifying… then selflessly fulfilling their partner’s true desires.” In her soft purring voice, Felina once actually said something just like that in an interview with a reporter from Earth who was doing an investigative report on Star Pussy.

  She even went on to say to the reporter, “After all, the only true satisfaction we get to experience in life actually comes from pleasing and fulfilling others. If all we do is attend to our own desires, life seems quite empty and meaningless.” But that last part was cut from the eventual broadcast.

  Of course for single male encounters, Felina was a goddess of fulfillment. One-on-one, with a male of most any species; Felina was both adaptable and engaging. She found out who they really were inside, and what they secretly longed for. And it didn’t even matter what they previously had in mind to experience with her; or even for that matter if they had anything in mind at all. Sure, beings did try and fantasize about what they’d like to do, before getting alone with her. Many would laugh about that too, when they later returned to their home planet. They’d tell their friends about going to Star Pussy dreaming of some bizarre sexual fantasy they wanted to fulfill; about jungle cats, wolfpacks, knights in armor, bikers, cowboys, Indians, policemen, burglars, secret agents, or even some specific act of perversion they wanted to try.

  But then when they’d finally get with Felina she’d end up doing something totally different for them (something which just simply blew their minds). What mattered to Felina was not just sexual fantasy. Those could be handled elsewhere, and on Star Pussy there were many different options. No… what Felina sought out was what they truly wanted to be as a person. Then using her special talents and knowledge of every species’ most sensitive erogenous zones, she’d relieve all the stress and clear the mind of all emotional baggage like regret, apprehension, and self-doubt. She brought the customer to a plane of existence where they were, for several moments, completely perfect and spiritually cleansed. It wasn’t even what she said either. In fact she said very little. She just found a way to get her customer to that place in his mind where the weight of the world was suddenly removed, and the spirit could be freed long enough to really see how beautiful they really were inside their own soul.

  And that really gave Felina great personal fulfillment as well. She was now nineteen years old, in Earth years; and there were a thousand more tomorrows for her at Star Pussy. Ten thousand maybe! Yet she didn’t have to care about any of that. She’d just finish her shift, have a great Seafood dinner at her favorite restaurant (which was always “comp’d” by her personal friend and Head Chef Rex Middlefield by the way), and then go back to her private dormitory room to get a well-deserved twelve hour snooze.

  Waking up for each new shift was easy. Her body was fit and healthy. Her soul was happy and peaceful. Everyone loved her at work; and every client appreciated her. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, Felina had the two things that every intelligent being really and truly craves: to be needed and to be appreciated.

  What more could this beautiful Star Kitten possibly want from life?

  Chapter 11:

  Space Pirates

  Meanwhile back on New Australia it took quite a while to uncover the Earth Cruiser and get the Main Terminal Loading Bay operational again, but they finally did it….

  In fact, thousands of Spleefs and Porkos labored on it for months to finally get the ramp cleared out, hauled away, and the area cleaned up. But that’s what the Tribal Confederation had ordered, and everyone understood the importance of doing so. They all believed and fully accepted that repairing and getting their captured Earth Cruiser “the Anarchy” back into space, trading mineral ore and precious gemstones for food, was the quickest path to replenishing the planet’s now dwindling food supply.

  Most everyone did anyway.

  Slart planners now working for Architeuthis, projected the timeline for the planet’s food reserves; as well as the time and resources necessary to develop perpetual hydroponic farms capable of feeding at least half the planet’s population. Bottom line was this: in about six months the planet’s population, though vastly reduced from global Civil War, would begin to starve.

  Trading for food with other planets was the best immediate option available to New Australia, they said. And the nearest planets were Porkonji and Zorgolong. Between the two, most delegates to the Tribal Confederation agreed, Porkonji was the better of the two options. After all, the industrial might of the planet Porkonji consumed far more in the way of iron ore and giant crystals to power their spacecraft, which traded all over the galaxy… and were exploring the rest of the universe frequently looking for new planets to colonize. Many in the Confederation—not just Porko tribes either—thought Porkonjii would make great customers.

  But still a small minority of Nausties felt seeking trade relations this quickly with other planets was a foolish idea….

  Solomon Mwanga, a black African from Earth… still leader of the planet’s oldest surviving gang and now Chieftain of the Schpleeftkorkii Tribe… oversaw the entire operation to rehab the Terminal Loading Bay. He could actually watch the activity too from his new office—located inside the old partially demolished Command Bubble overhead.

  The original structure—back during the rebellion—had most all of its lower floor blown off as well as part of the second floor, but Earther construction teams repaired it enough to support a large planning office with a conference table for planning meetings. It now also had a bank of desks for terminal traffic controllers to once again run the terminal operations.

  Solomon sat in the center at the desk formerly used by Warden Ggggaaah. His warriors had brought it down from Ggggaaah’s now empty office on the top of the terminal dome for him to use. This gesture was in deference to their Chieftain’s well-known past—because back on Earth, Solomon had once been a young African warlord who’d staged a bloody Coup d'état in his home country.

  The overthrow of the country’s regime led to a devastating civil war which killed tens of thousands of troops and over a hundred thousand innocent civilians caught up in the conflict. For eighteen tumultuous Earth months he was the self-proclaimed “President” of the country; fighting first against government forces still supporting the ousted former President and then against rebels supported by neighboring rival nations. He desperately held onto power before finally being deposed and having to flee into exile. Captured and tried later in international court for “war crimes”, he was sentenced to twenty years on Rijel 12. At the time, he was still only 25 years old.

  But that was many Earth years earlier. Solomon was a much wiser man now. Wiser and more patient, yes, yet still just as cool and calculating. Solomon was one of those more realistic Nausties who disagreed with seeking trade relations with other planets. Not yet anyway. But as a Chieftain and delegate to the Tribal Confederation, Solomon wisely kept his opinions suppressed—at least in public.

  Meeting with everyone before the planned launch of the Anarchy, Solomon spoke to his staff of mostly Slarts and a few Earthers, greeting them coolly and calmly—as he always did—with, “Good day everyone… are we ready to get this bird back into the air?” The staff members all muttered and murmured affirmative replies. His tone was coldly businesslike as usual, as though he had something very important to discuss, and had no time for silly anecdotal humor.

  Solomon, having been installed as “Terminal Chief” by the selection committee of the Tribal Confederation monthly conference, got to hand-pick his own staff, and this was far more important than winning over Confederation delegates to his side. This gave him a great measure o
f autonomy to make crucial decisions on his own, without seeking approval from the planet’s governing body. Besides most of those Chieftains merely followed the wave of public sentiment when deciding how to vote.

  Nevertheless, the results spoke for themselves! The terminal machinery, mechanisms, and especially the functions of the planet’s only space craft were now fully functional. The Anarchy was ready to be loaded, and Slart engineers had given it the okay to fly. If nothing else, the Confederation committees had indeed chosen the right man for the job of running the operation. Solomon and especially his staff were meticulous and efficient. However they were also quite intelligent, and to be sure several of them shared their commander’s doubts about sending a trade mission to Porkonji!

  Solomon continued dryly, “Within a few days, as we all know, our terminal facility is about to launch The Anarchy into space. We’ve readied ourselves and our crew for this… spent months of repairing, cleaning, rebuilding, and staffing. We’ve considered every potential challenge—and setback—that we could think of… to get this Terminal operational once again. I’m proud of all of you.” Solomon smiled briefly then soon returned to glaring coolly at them all. The Slarts fluttered their faces and hummed with acknowledgment at the compliment, taking Solomon’s words at face value, which was in their nature.

  Of course Slarts didn’t yet understand human nature and social customs completely, especially when it came to managers addressing a staff meeting. Human leaders were often times using flowery complimentary words and making grandiose statements that didn’t convey the full message or truth of their intentions (especially when addressing an audience). The Earthers on his staff murmured obediently as well; but they just knew something was coming. There was no way Solomon was going to say something so sugary and sweet like that—and not follow it up with a “however”….

  And they were right. Solomon was not the type to lavish subordinates with compliments. He clearly had something else on his mind. Sure enough, Solomon pounded the table lightly with his right fist, and changed his demeanor completely.

  “However…we’ve been making certain assumptions about things during this process that may or may not come to fruition. We’ve been naively assuming that Porkonji… or any planet in the galaxy for that matter… will actually trade with us.”

  Of course the Earthers on his staff had been thinking this all along, even if the logical Slarts hadn’t even considered it. Namely: how could they really expect other planets to trade with New Australia, or even allow a Naustie ship to land in Planetary Authority ports?

  Solomon went on, “We’re convicts, after all comrades… all of us. We’re criminals and revolutionaries from six different planets… who all got sent here to die in the mines below. We were cast off... exiled... thrown away... whatever you wish to call it… only to have risen up and overthrown our captors. And yet the Tribal Confederation has assigned us to send our planet’s only space craft to planet Porkonji…to trade for food.” Solomon paused again, leaning back now with his hands gripping the edge of the conference table as he continued, “Who’s to say they don’t confiscate our ship and all its holdings?” Solomon pushed back from the table, stood up, and began pacing the office while the Slarts recovered from the shock of his candor. The Earthers grumbled tensely.

  There was quite a long pause while the staff awaited his next words. But Solomon was quite right. From the very start, the Tribal Confederation had been urging a frantic cleanup and repair effort while all the while portraying an image that once the Anarchy could fly again, New Australia could begin trading with other planets for food and supplies. As if the Interplanetary Authority (IPA) would REALLY be willing to just let bygones be bygones: forget all about the rebellion and the overthrow of Security Forces, the brutal slaughter of mine employees… and of course the execution of their own carefully chosen Prison Warden.

  True, Interplanetary Authority ships never did arrive trying to recapture the planet (not yet anyway). And when the Warden’s staff had sent desperate messages pleading to passing ships to come evacuate the “survivors” of the Naustie Revolt, Interplanetary Authority officials had wisely (if not cowardly) ordered a quarantine of the planet and forbade ships from landing there.

  But Solomon was now in charge. He’d been chosen as Terminal Chief and in his very organized mind, he could now focus his very well-qualified staff on the cold hard truth they really faced. What Solomon was basically implying—no, what he was actually flat-out SAYING—to his staff was this, “If the Anarchy takes off tomorrow to fly to Porkonji… with a load of mineral ore… it’s never coming back. And we all—deep in our hearts—know that for a FACT. We’ll lose our only ship, and the Inter-planetary Authority will just write us off. They’ll simply let us starve and die. And that, my friends is also a FACT.” Solomon put extra emphasis on that last part. He knew that would get everyone’s attention.

  The Slarts bristled at his words, fluttering their facial tentacles with concern. They weren’t offended of course. Honesty and bluntness were a part of their culture and nature. They frankly could do nothing BUT tell the truth. The only thing that unsettled them was Solomon’s repeated use of the word FACT. Solomon didn’t react to their rumblings. He knew Slarts had a real problem with anyone saying something was FACT when it hadn’t occurred yet… and also if it hadn’t been painstakingly calculated to prove it was indeed irrefutably so, removing all possible doubt.

  Yet the Earthers at the conference table, though they squirmed a bit in their chairs, knew exactly what Solomon was talking about. That’s really what they loved about their boss, too. He was diplomatic and congenial when dealing with the Tribal Confederation in public, but when he met with them all privately, he’d speak bluntly and soberly. That’s what they really needed. Hell, any Earthman knows: it was perfectly normal for any governing body to make ebullient promises based on vague overly-optimistic theories without thoroughly considering ALL the real potential challenges. Earthers knew that, even if Slarts did not. And governments didn’t have to, did they? Whomever they placed in charge or whoever they assigned the duties to for carrying out the associated tasks… THAT was the poor bastard who had to answer for it later; if he failed.

  However, Solomon was the kind of man who could handle this. He wouldn’t just blindly follow the directives of the Confederation and merely try and rely on their naïve assumptions. That’s what made him the right choice for Terminal Chief from the beginning.

  Solomon after all had been the one who commanded the highly lauded supply distribution division during the rebellion. Solomon had been the one who devised the diabolical backup plan where Naustie Spleefs and Zorgs would climb up and down the service ladders of the elevator shafts wearing backpacks filled with water bottles, ammunition, and food rations. If it had come to this, Solomon would have ordered his plan to be implemented.

  And above everything else, Architeuthis trusted Solomon implicitly. That was why Architeuthis went into hiding and accepted Solomon’s protection during the planetary Civil War. That’s why Architeuthis suggested to the Tribal Confederation selection committee that they put Solomon in charge as Terminal Chief.

  Few, if any, objected.

  Solomon had said quite enough now. He just needed his staff members to speak up and engage in a debate on the matter. A good leader knows how to do that: get his people to kind of talk themselves into it a bit first, before issuing the orders he already intended for them to carry out.

  First, one of the Earthers spoke up, a man named Bui Hoang Oh. He was from the Earth region of China, and at one time ran a large Asian organized crime syndicate. Bui spoke up first, using language that was quite shocking to his Slart colleagues, but quite frankly and truly echoed the sentiments of the other Earthers on the staff.

  Bui leaned back in his chair, unfolding his arms and cocking an eye suspiciously as he said, “Right Commander… My colleagues and I have often wondered this. How does the Confederation really expect us to TRADE with other planets?
We’re criminals, as you say. They sent us here to die. So now why would they trust us or even talk to us?” Another human, a former mobster from New Chicago named Nicky Ciancio, chimed in rather brashly, “Yeah, boss… da Chink is right. Diss is frickin’ nuts. How the hell do dey teenk weeuh gonna just show up on Porkonji and tell doze frickin’ Porkos, 'hey we got frickin’ iron oah fah sale'. Dey’ll lock us up da moment we step off da frickin’ ship.” Bui chuckled. He and Nicky were old friends and the racial slur “chink” didn’t bother him in the least—at least not when Nicky said it of course. Anyone else and they’d have gotten a knife shoved up under their ribs!

  Solomon spun and looked at all the staffers sitting around the conference table. “Most likely yes,” said Solomon with a humorous but serious glare. He then crossed his arms and waited patiently for more feedback.

  One of the Slarts, named Decapodifor, interjected, “But Commander, the Confederation has ordered us to travel to Porkonji and trade for food. Is that not what we have been working on all this time?” Solomon stood calmly and nodded, saying, “Yes, they did. That’s what they ordered us to do.” Decapodifor sighed and fluttered his facial tentacles in the way Slarts do when they’re flustered. He clarified, “And so… we’re NOT going to Porkonji… or are we?”

  Nicky scoffed at Decapodifor’s naiveté’, still looking at Solomon with a sly grin, “Ah, hell no ya’ dumbass… da Chief’s got a bettuh idea… don’t ya’ Boss?” Solomon’s eyes drifted over to Nicky, then back to Decapodifor. “Maybe…,” he grinned. Then his face went cold. Solomon slowly stepped back to his chair and sat back down, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. He clasped his hands together, and added with a serious look on his face, “But we know what our primary task really is, and that’s to get food for New Australia, isn’t that right comrades?”