MFS PESMOD
Ambassador Niblui jolted upright from her comfy bunk as the jarring clang of metal echoed through the ship’s corridors. The walls, though thin, muffled the urgent wailing of an alarm, but only just before a comical sequence of thuds silenced it, like someone wrestling with a stubborn piece of machinery.
She jabbed the button for the intercom. “What’s going on, bridge? Is everything okay?”
Captain Pliont’s voice, ever calm and soothing, replied immediately, “Nothing to worry about, Ambassador. We have everything under control. There was a minor maintenance issue with our blink engine, and we’ve shut it down temporarily to address it. We’ll be on the move again, shortly. Sorry for all the ruckus, and I hope we did not cause you unnecessary alarm.”
“I see. Uh… thanks for the update,” she said, then added, “Did our new Schpriss ships stop with us as well?”
“No, the loaners and the escort are still on their way back to Malgeiru. As I said, I’m sure this is a quick fix on our end. We’ll rejoin them as soon as we can.”
“Thank you, Captain. Carry on.”
Realizing that she wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep, Niblui sat up on her bunk and began to read on her datapad.
She’d been reading a best-selling work written by a Schpriss novelist called Peace for All Eternity, a tragic story about a cross-species relationship between a young Schpriss male and a Malgeir female. They connected as exchange students while she was in college, discovering friendship and eventually, heart-tugging love. But fate was not on their side: she had to go to war to protect her pack, joining the Malgeir Marines and taking part in a critical battle to protect an orbital defense installation against invading Znosians.
The novel resonated with Niblui. She found it compelling in its descriptions of the clash of two cultures and their conflicting values, honor and harmony — it all seemed too real. She hadn’t finished it yet, but judging by the fact that the novel was technically censored and banned in the Federation, she was sure that the young Malgeir Marine would not make it through the end of the book.
Still, despite knowing how it was likely to end, she couldn’t put the book down. It felt as though the story was penned by someone who had lived it or had been close enough to feel its heartbeat.
Perhaps, she pondered, perhaps it was. After all, there were more than enough real-life examples.
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A few corridors forward of her cabin — on the diplomacy ship’s bridge, the atmosphere was significantly less calm.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? What did you do?” came the accusatory question from the Pesmod’s captain, his voice a sharp edge of disbelief.
The head engineer, covered in sweat and grime, replied with all the diplomacy he could muster, “I’m telling you, Captain. All we saw were massive fluctuations in the blink drive. Then, it guzzled all our fuel in ten seconds like a thirsty river prey and then, bam! No more blink.”
“Ten seconds?”
The engineer was adamant. “Literally! Ten seconds tops on the logs. The engineer-on-duty monitoring the system is not a drunkard, and I can vouch for that. He didn’t even have time to shout for me.”
Pesmod scratched his cheeks. “That seems unusual. I’ve never even heard of running out of blink fuel mid-blink before. Could there be a… leak somewhere in the blink drive?”
“A leak? With all respect, Captain, the blink engine is not a hydraulic pipe. If it springs a leak, we would all be dead before we know it!”
Pesmod sighed, rubbing his snout. “Alright, alright. You figure out— figure out what’s causing the problem, so that it doesn’t happen again. I’ll call the escort back to transfer us some fuel. They’re only twenty minutes out. Last thing I want is it breaking down again. That would be embarrassing with the ambassador on board. We’ve still got power, right?”
“Sure. The reactor assembly is purring just fine. It’s just the blink engine that seems to have broken down.”
“Good, good,” Pesmod nodded, relieved.
He then swiveled to address the sensor officer. “And you, keep on a look out. Crank the sensors to max.”
The sensor officer looked at him in surprise. “You’re thinking we might have been tampered with, Captain?”
Pesmod gave a half-smile, his eyes scanning the control panels. “No, we’d probably be dead by now if it were the Grass Eaters, but let’s keep on our paws anyway, eh? We’re alone in deep space. There should be nothing here, but it costs almost nothing to be extra careful… Besides, who doesn’t love a good old safety drill?”
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Half an hour later, Captain Pliont was swiftly ushered to a more secluded spot by the communication officer, away from the hustle and bustle of the bridge.
“What’s got your whiskers all twisted, Communications Officer?” Pliont asked, eyebrows raised in mild annoyance.
Her snout trembled slightly as she leaned in. “There’s an issue,” she whispered. “Captain, the escort didn’t respond to our requests.”
He frowned, a puzzled look washing over him. “What? Are stranded ships supposed to pay for blink fuel transfers now? What’s the going rate for prompt service? Look, whatever the price, I’ll dip into our cash reserves. We have a stash for emergencies like this.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, Captain, you’re not getting it. It’s like we’re shouting into a void. There’s zero reply.”
A longer sigh escaped Pliont’s lips. “Oh great. Those drunkards. How long would it take for us to get a fuel tanker out from Malgeiru?”
“That’s the thing, Captain. I tried buzzing Malgeiru too, and…” she took a deep breath. “It’s like our messages are swallowed by space itself. Nothing. Total radio silence.”
His eyes widened. “Our FTL radio is broken? I thought we just upgraded that thing last year to a new model?”
“Everything seems to be operational. We just can’t seem to communicate with anyone else.”
“Communications Officer, we seem to have a totally different definition of operational,” the rattled Pliont almost snarled.
She looked too petrified to reply.
Then, he thought for a moment and calmed down. Pliont patted her lightly on the shoulder twice, hoping that would mollify her. “Alright. Don’t tell the rest of the ship. No need to cause panic among the crew. Keep at it, and keep trying. At worst, someone will realize we’re missing and backtrack looking for us, right?”
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Pliont ambled through the metallic corridors, arriving at the dining hall, which was now in a lull between mealtimes. A smattering of crew members, deep in their off-duty chats, straightened up and saluted as he ambled by.
Navigating through, he made a beeline for the kitchen and subtly gestured the head chef into a quiet corner, the sound of bubbling pots and sizzling pans enveloping them.
“Chef,” he began, voice barely above a whisper, “How long can we hold out without resupply?”
The chef blinked, puzzled. “Captain?”
“How many days of food did we load up onto the ship at Schpriss Prime?”
Scratching his chin, the chef murmured a few numbers as he counted the boxes on his kitchen shelves. “Rough estimate… About two more months.”
“Only two months?!”
“Well, we’ve got those emergency ration cubes too.”
“How much will the cubes last?”
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“Those? They’d stretch us for another four months, give or take,” the chef replied, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why? We’ve never had to use those before.”
Pliont’s eyes flicked to the corner of the room where the boxes were stored. “How long have those cubes been stashed there?”
The chef shrugged. “They’re older than us, probably. They’re Navy standard issue.”
Pliont’s face crumpled in mild disgust.
Navy standard issue. That was code for not scientifically proven to be inedible yet. He paused, lost in thought for a heartbeat.
“You sound like something’s up, Captain. Are we stranded?”
“No, Chef. We’ll manage,” Pliont said with a forced grin. “After all, we’ve got a fair chunk of time till rescue, right?”
The chef’s eyes widened. “Hold up, Captain. If we’re lost or stranded, food won’t be the real headache here. Our pantry’s always the last to empty out.”
Pliont’s face went pale as the realization hit. “Ah, power. The reactor. We were already low on reactor fuel when we left Malgeir last. We’ll last three months, maybe four, running the generators for air and water.”
The chef’s face mirrored Pliont’s anxiety. “Are we in trouble? What’s the plan, Captain?”
Pliont squared his shoulders. “For now, chef, you focus on the kitchen. This chat? It stays between us, alright?”
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The dim lights overhead flickered momentarily, as if teasing him with his problems. Pliont mulled over flipping the Pesmod into emergency power-saving mode. It would add another few months to their power reserves, bringing its projected failure time to after they ran out of food and other supplies. Now, he just had to figure out a way to break the bad news to the ambassador before he could announce his rationing plan to the crew…
He was interrupted from his thoughts by a sharp intake of breath from the sensor officer, who shot up from his chair like she’d been electrified.
“Captain! We’ve got a blip: huge, massive, off our port side… wait! Hang on… it’s… disappeared? That can’t be right. Sorry… must be a radar glitch.”
Pliont quickly swiped at his console, paws dancing over the controls, ordering another scan of the area in question. If there was even a shadow of a threat, shutting systems down would be off the table. “Run that by me again, Sensor Officer. Glitches don’t usually produce such specific readings.”
“I’m on it, Captain. Narrow scans on the area… Nothing.”
Pliont chewed the inside of his cheek. “Keep the radar array dialed in on that spot. Just because we don’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Something doesn’t feel right.”
First the blink drive, then the FTL radio, and now sensor glitches? Everything in Pliont’s instincts told him something was wrong. But what?
An uneasy murmur spread through the bridge crew.
Pliont straightened in his chair, trying to project an aura of calm for his crew’s sake. “Boost the sensors, flood that area with every scanning instrument we’ve got. If there’s something — or someone — lurking out there, I want to know about it.”
He couldn’t fight something he couldn’t see. And if there was an enemy, it was going to kill them much faster than hunger, thirst, or even running out of oxygen.
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A few nerve-wracking minutes later, Pliont’s sensitive ears picked up an unmistakable clang echoing through the ship’s hull.
“What the hell is that?” he called out to the bridge, his voice carrying a hint of worry.
The sensor officer, eyes glued to her display, responded, “Sensors show nothing unusual, Captain.”
“Are we sure we didn’t just graze some space debris?” he demanded, eyes darting around, searching for answers.
The officer frowned. “There’s nothing for light seconds. Maybe the engineers are conducting repairs in the hull?”
With a flick of a switch, Pliont activated the intercom to the engineering room. “Was that loud sound you guys making repairs on the engine hull?”
“What loud sound?” came the head engineer’s puzzled voice from the speaker. “Nah, Captain. We’re just conducting waste maintenance on the blink drive.”
Before Pliont could ponder the mystery further, the ambassador’s calm voice emerged from the intercom. “Captain Pliont, I didn’t realize you sent for a shuttle for me. I appreciate it, but I’m fine waiting like everyone else. Take your time with the maintenance.”
“What sh—shuttle?” Pliont stuttered, half bewildered and half horrified.
“Yeah, the beautiful black one that we just docked with outside my suite windows. Like I said, I can wait with the rest of the ship.” There was a hint of amusement in the ambassador’s voice. Then, a distant sound of a door opening followed. “Oh, hello there, do you need any— oh!”
There was the sound of the communicator dropping to the floor and the connection went dead.
Pliont felt a cold shiver form between his shoulders, chilling him to the bone. It took him another second to come to the obvious conclusion. He leaned towards his command console, his voice urgent. “Pesmod crew! We have been boarded! Security crew, head to the weapons locker! Engineering, get the self-destruct ready. Authorization code Four Two—”
He heard a loud thud behind him, the distinctive sound of metal on his bridge floor, and felt a cold, blunt object jab into his ribs from behind, its message clear. A low voice emanated from behind him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, officer. No sudden movements or sounds, please.”
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The bridge, usually a hub of controlled chaos, now bore witness to a surreal scene. The intruders in their gleaming EVA suits were eerily efficient in herding the crew against the dimly lit walls. The sharp contours of their dark gray helmets and armor caught the bridge’s ambient lights, giving them a sinister gleam. The guns they held were unlike any Pliont had seen: slim and streamlined, but unmistakably deadly.
Six. Pliont mentally noted. They were clearly alien. Their stature dwarfed that of the Malgeir, yet it wasn’t just their height that was intimidating. Their visors were metallically opaque, betraying no hint of the species behind the armor. Efficient, smooth, and… professional was the only way he could describe it.
Boarding Marines? Pliont wondered. But not the Znosian variety. Rumors about them were rampant in the Navy, tales of ruthless efficiency and brutality, but the beings before him felt different. Too tall for being Grass Eaters, he figured.
Not that he could know for sure; most people who did were probably no longer alive.
His thoughts raced as he tried to place them amongst the dozen or so known species of the galaxy. None fit the bill. They gave commands to the crew in Malgeirish with an ease that was chilling, hinting at advanced translation technology or perhaps deeper infiltration into the Malgeir society than anyone realized.
Glancing to his side, he searched Niblui’s face for any recognition. But the usually composed diplomat looked as shaken as he felt, her eyes wide and the fur on her back bristling with fear.
He did a quick headcount, trying to find solace in numbers. To his relief, it seemed that the entire crew was present and accounted for, though a few looked groggy, sluggish. It looked like no one resisted, but a couple of his crew members in engineering had obviously been sedated by the aliens.
The weight of the situation bore down on Pliont, and yet his mind raced, trying to find any possible way out. He considered his options. There was no way he could trigger the ship’s self-destruct without alerting his captors, and even if he did, they could probably shut it down with their control of the engineering deck.
Then, he thought, the Ambassador had said they docked with the Pesmod with a shuttle right outside her windows. If he can get to the navigation consoles and make some sudden movements on the ship, that could potentially disconnect their transport and distract them enough to overwhelm their few attackers. There are way more of us than these aliens. Worst case, their shuttle would collide with the ship, and both would be destroyed.
Depressurization wasn’t a good way to go, but it would be preferable to capture and torture. At least it is one option, I’ll have to disconnect the inertial compensators, he thought, glancing at the navigation console—
“It won’t work,” one of his captors remarked, their armored helmet barely visible in the dim light as they turned to face him. Through the speakers of her helmet, a slightly high-pitched translation emerged — a voice characteristic of a female Malgeir. But with these aliens, who knew? “That trick you’re thinking of? It won’t work.”
He could almost sense a hint of mirth behind that voice translation.
Pliont’s jaw tightened. “What trick?” he asked, hoping the aliens wouldn’t use this as an excuse to get rough with him for disobeying their instructions to keep quiet.
“Your plan. We disabled your flight computers before we even got cozy with your ship.”
Raising his snout, he asked, “So you disabled our sensors too? Is that why our proximity alarms stayed silent?”
She let out a chuckle through her translator. “This one catches on quick… Ah, it’s the captain himself. Honestly? Your ship was so blind, we could’ve played hide and seek with your ship parts, and you’d have been none the wiser.”
Feeling a surge of bruised pride for his vessel, Pliont countered, “We did catch a glimpse of you on the radar. Brief, but it was there.”
There was more merriment from the alien before she replied, “That decoy on your port side was a nice touch, wasn’t it? How did you think our people got physical access to your ship without you noticing, Captain Pliont?”
Choosing to bypass her little jibe, he responded, “Well, obviously you learned my name when your infiltrator heard my crew talking about me. Will you let us live if we tell you what you want to know?”
“We know everything we need to know about you and your ship, Captain. We’ve been planning this mission for months. By the way, your sewage hydraulic systems are showing a two-zero-niner fault. Might want to get that checked out and fixed sooner rather than later, you know how bad those things can be when they—”
Two more armored alien figures casually strolled in.
“Captain, and ambassador, if you two will follow me?” one of the new intruders requested, almost politely. “If you all behave, we promise your ship and crew will be unharmed.”
Sensing no other choice, the two of them reluctantly left the comfort of the herd to follow the intruders off the bridge.
Pliont kept an eye on any opportunities on the way and saw nothing. They were always covered by at least two of the armored figures, who put themselves in positions where he knew they could hit him and Niblui with their lethal-looking weapons without putting one of their own in danger.
The metallic clank of their steps echoed as they finally stepped into the dining area. One of their people had busied… itself with a piece of compact machinery that looked like one of their datapads, its… paws deftly working the device.
“The atmosphere is reading green, Admiral. We can breathe easy here,” it announced.
Green? Does it mean blue? Why would they—
With a faint hiss of de-pressurization, one of the captors started removing their helmet, unveiling the face underneath. The creature beneath was mostly bare-skinned, save for patches of long, brown fur on its scalp that cascaded past its shoulders. It had soft round ears, a stubby nose, and two piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through Pliont. Then it inhaled sharply, its snout holes flaring. “Yep, you lot smell just like I imagined. I knew we should have brought the deodorant—”
Before the alien could spill another word, Ambassador Niblui’s fur on her spine raised further into a fearful hackle. She gasped, her voice quivering, “You— you are… Grass Eaters.”