Date: 37 PST (Post Stasis Time)
Kelt’ch stared at the passenger list, his thorax starting to vibrate with worry as he looked down at the list of names in front of him. This couldn’t be right, this couldn’t be happening. Why here, why now? ‘Station Joreial’ was a Kirken station: small, rarely used, a bit of a dump that serviced a few of the lesser used mining stations. Mostly smaller merchants transporting materials and supplies… as well as a non-insignificant amount of criminal activity that existed here in the outer reaches of the insectoid species’ aura of influence.
All of those ships going to and fro provided an official reason for travel and an official passenger list. Within the list of ships providing travel plans over the next week, a single vessel stood out to Kelt’ch: a Terran vessel. Their official reason for visiting was transporting supplies to the various mining stations around the area, but the real worry came from the passenger list. 2 Terran crew members listed… one of which had a name that filled the Kirken reading it with terror.
Admiral.
“What’s wrong Kelt’ch? You look like you’ve seen a spirit.”
Kelt’ch looked up from the data pad he was holding, his wings fluttering with apprehension and antennae twitching from side to side as Parsk’l, the female Kirken he co-owned the station with, asked him the question.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong!? Look at this, look who is visiting the station!”
The Kirken thrust the data pad into the face of the other while his three remaining hands were wrung with anxiety. Parsk’l glanced at it a moment, her head tilting to the side in confusion.
“Oh, we’re getting a Terran visitor. We recently joined their Alliance, didn’t we? That’ll be fun, what’s wrong with that?”
Kelt’ch gave an antennae swish of incredulity at that statement as all 4 feet of the insect looked back at her. How could she not see the problem?
“Ignoring the fact that Terrans are 6 feet of angry, terrifying primate from a world so heavy they could punch a hole through my chitin with their bare hands? It’s an admiral. Literally a top military man from a deathworlder species.”
“Huh, neat. Wonder why they’re coming here? Anyways, what’s the issue?”
The response from Parsk’l caused Kelt’ch to take flight a few inches off the ground in anxiety and annoyance, wings beating to keep the insect in the air as their four arms gestured wildly.
“What’s the issue?! What’s the issue?! You remember what a crap hole we own, right?! We don’t sweep too often because I’m convinced the dust is load bearing and keeping the entire station from breaking apart. When was the last time we got the grav generator serviced?”
“Well… I think that was a couple of decades ago when the service came free with the…”
“When did we last change the filters on the air filtration system?”
“It’s the first of the month right now, so… 10… 20…. When was the station built?”
“How much of the business passing through the station is illegal smugglers?”
“How can we really define illegal… OK I get your point. Maybe they won’t mind and will think it’s normal.”
Kelt’ch stopped flitting about, finally landing as he just stared at his business partner, anxiety giving way to an incredulous feeling, as if Parsk’l had said the most stupid of things.
“This is a top military mind of the Terrans. The last time someone pissed them off, they blew up one of the Hatil’s worlds!”
“Well the Hatil did declare war on them, and they kinda suck technologically. It won’t be that bad, right?”
“I’m not taking that risk!” Kelt’ch took on a more authoritative voice as he spoke, the change in demeanour suggesting action and a plan to be had. “We need to clean up, make sure everything is in tip-top shape, ensure nothing illegal is happening while the Terran is here… all in five days…”
All four of his hands held his head in despair as the size of the monumental task that lay ahead of the Kirken fully hit him.
God, the Terran Admiral is going to kill us.
—-----------------------
Kelt’ch could feel a silent rage building inside of him as he looked around the engine room. He’d not been down here in years, but the once shiny room was a travesty. The control panels and various diagnostic systems were somewhere under all of the mess, but every single surface was covered in… rubbish. Half worked on broken pieces of machinery, empty food containers and mould covered drinking glasses. The Kirken was lucky he could fly, otherwise he’d be wading knee-deep in the grime.
Even worse was the lack of… professionalism of the general working environment. Plastered all over the walls and various pieces of equipment were photos and stickers of a… not safe for work nature. At the centre of all of this sat the man who was supposed to be in charge, the Kirken engineer who was hired to maintain the station’s engines, seemingly unconcerned about the state of the room.
“What in the ever living scorch is all this!”
Kelt’ch’s voice rang out with rage as he stared upon the absolute disgrace that his station was in. Sure, Kelt’ch knew that the station was hardly a 5-star establishment, but this was… this was… there were no words for it.
“Dude, you need to chill, you’re harshing my vibe.”
Kelt’ch stared at the man who technically had the job title “Chief Engineer of Station Joreial’. Sure, the guy was cheap and had no real experience when he’d hired him 5 years ago, but this was…
“Are you high right now!”
“Ha ha, how can I be high when I’m not even flying… You look stressed, I got a little something for that, the guys down at the docking station got it for me.”
Kelt’ch felt like he was going to have an attack in at least one of his hearts, the stabbing chest pains increasing whenever he stared at the monstrosity that lay around him and the complete lack of care his engineer seemingly had.
“I’m stressed because this place is a mess, you are on drugs, and a Terran admiral is going to be here in five days!”
“Bro, don’t flutter dude. Terrans don’t exist, they’re an imaginary creation of the government to scare people into paying their taxes. That’s why I don’t pay tax to anyone.”
That was it, Kelt’ch flew over to the drugged out engineer, spinning the insect’s chair to face him as he screamed at the Kirken with the rage of a million suns.
“Terrans exist, and they are going to tear you apart with their deathworlder strength unless you fix this! I want this mess cleaned up, I want every log of every piece of maintenance done in the last two years, and get rid of these posters and stickers as well!”
“Duude, party foul!” The Engineer's antennae were twitching with worry as Kelt’ch was completely up in his face. “Those stickers are official engineer supplies, you can’t get rid of them.”
“That is not an Engineering piece of equipment. That is a sticker of a Kirken woman…. With her broodcapsule showing to the world!” Kelt’ch whispered the last part angrily. “Get rid of it!”
With that, the Kirken reached over to the offending sticker, tucking his insectoid fingers underneath the glue covered paper and starting to peel it off the console it was attached to. The room was plunged into darkness as the power went out, the sound of machines and various processes that kept the inhabitants of the station alive all going silent at once. A clicking clunking sound echoed through the room as the backup life support systems tried to spin to life, a few moments passing before those machines gave up, leaving the pair and every member of the station in the dark.
Slowly, with a feeling of dread and fear, Kelt’ch slapped the offensive sticker back where he found it, hoping that the life support systems would start running again. Thankfully, the lights turned back on with a lengthy stutter as the machines running the space station once again started to spin and churn.
“See dude, I told you that sticker was important.”
“Why is the entire ship’s power supply being held together with a sticker?! How long has this been going on!”
“Bro, it’s not just that sticker, it’s all the stickers. And like, it’s been working for two years, so who cares, it’s all good!”
Kelt’ch was suddenly a lot less concerned with the arrival of the Terran admiral, and a lot more concerned with the station exploding while he stood in it.
I know I haven't been paying too much attention to the nitty-gritty day to day running of the station, but is it really this bad?
“This is not good! Exactly what is wrong with the station that we have a load bearing sticker!”
“I dunno, it's kinda weird bro.”
“How do you not know! I hired you because you have a degree in Theoretical Warp Engineering, it is literally your job to know!”
“Dude, I said I have a Theoretical degree in Warp Engineering. Stop being so harsh dude.”
Kelt’ch was going to kill him. The Kirken was going to murder this supposed engineer. In a fit of rage he grabbed the idiot and lifted him out of the chair, wings beating furiously as he screamed at the fraud with every fibre of his being.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“You are going to clean this place up, you are going to work out what we need to do to fix this place, or by everything holy and righteous in this universe, when the Terran Admiral arrives I will feed you to the 6ft tall deathworlder primate! Do you understand!”
The quivering antennae on the ‘engineer’ stated that whatever drugs he was on, wasn’t enough to counteract the ‘harsh vibes’ that Kelt’ch was now giving off.
“I’ll… I’ll get right on that.”
—---------
Of all the places on Station Joreial, the kitchen was the closest to being decent. Before Kelt’ch had saved up enough to get into the world of investing and buy this station, he had worked in a variety of kitchens.
He didn't know much about engineering, or docking procedures, but he did know enough about kitchens to hire employees good enough to keep things running. It was probably the most important part of running a station: pilots and cargo haulers would forgive a lot of things if they coould get a decent meal and drinkable stimulants.
“So, listen up, we're going to be visited by the most important visitor this station has ever had in two days time.”
Two days. That's all he had left. The last three days had been a terrible blur of cleaning and trying to fix everything that had been left abandoned over the last decade.
Replacing the air filtration system filters had been a horrific task in claustrophobia, trying to test the emergency fire suppression system had caused a small fire, and Kelt’ch had discovered three janitors on the payroll who hadn't turned up for work for several years.
Still, the Kirken couldn't help but feel that he was starting to ‘win’ this battle.
“So, I want there to be the best platter we have to offer. I know you are all capable of making something to wow and impress.”
Kelt’ch could see a small amount of excitement building in the 5-man crew. The 4 Kirken and single amphibian Zorthian that made up the kitchen staff were all surprisingly talented for their place of work, and the chance to spread their culinary wings was one they didn't get often.
“This member is also a deathworlder, meaning even the dangerous stuff is allowed. Capsaicin, caffeine, arsenic, cyanide. I'm trusting in you all to give our guests the best meal he's eaten outside of his home planet!”
“Who is this mystery guest?” asked the head chef, antennae twitching with excitement as he asked.
“Our new galactic partners, a Terran. Large primate deathworlders, very strong, very powerful. Not only that, one of the pair will be an Admiral.”
The change in the demeanour of the cooking staff was immediate, the four Kirken losing all enthusiasm and glancing at each other with worry and fear. Each of them silently and without a word dropped whatever they were holding, and started to leave the kitchen, pushing past Kelt’ch in order to exit.
“Wait, what's wrong? Where are you going?!”
The station owner chased after the four, frantically trying to stop most of his kitchen staff from leaving as they made a beeline to the docking bay of the station.
“If you're worried about them being deathworlders, I've been told that they're perfectly safe! They don't eat people at all!”
At this his head cook turned to face Kelt’ch, his brief hopes that they were reconsidering abandoning their post dashed by the Kirken’s next words.
“Look, Kelt’ch, I'm gonna be honest with you because you're a real one. All of us have way too many warrants to be in the same system as an Admiral, let alone on the same station. If the job still exists in three days’ time then we’ll be back, but until then… I’ve got priors and missed court dates. I can’t be having an Admiral Deathworlder finding out about those.”
There was nothing Kelt’ch could say to the four as they took the first transport off the station they could, not even taking the time to retrieve their belongings, making good on their promise of placing as much distance between themselves and the eventual arrival of the Admiral, leaving the station owner alone and in despair.
With heavy hearts Kelt’ch made his way back to the kitchen, where the last remaining staff member stood, the Zorthian still silently doing prep work where he’d left him.
“Well, at least you’re still here.”
There was a moment as the amphibian looked up for a moment, confused, before fiddling with a device that sat in their ear.
“Sorry boss, did you need me? I had my translator turned off as I was listening to music. Did you say something?”
—--------------------
The day was finally here. Kelt’ch stood in the docking bay, his four hands being wrung together in worry as he watched the ship approach. The station was in… a passable state. The engines had been fixed to the point where he was relatively certain it wasn’t going to explode, catering had been ordered in to replace his kitchen staff, the Yult-mite infestation had been reduced to manageable levels, and the cargo haulers who had been running a Spice ring had been let go and driven off of the station. Kelt’ch had been awake for 5 solid days, and was only awake right now due to said Spice ring, but station Joreial was… passable. Not a 5-star establishment, not even nice looking, but… passable.
Maybe the Terran Admiral would be fooled.
Kelt’ch was alone as the Terran’s vessel docked, it’s name ‘Mostly Duct-tape’ painted on the side. Parsk’l had long since collapsed with exhaustion, leaving the single Kirken alone to greet the Admiral, but all gods be damned, he wasn’t going to fail at this last hurdle. The Terran’s ship was surprisingly small… ratty looking even, its paint fading and an outside that could have honestly done with a scrub down. Kelt’ch was expecting something far more grandiose, of silvers and golds, more like royalty.
Still, it did kind of make sense. The Terrans were a deathworlder species. They probably didn’t care for aesthetics and put a greater value in functionality. Maybe they’d be impressed with Station Joreial’s minimalist efficiency.
The door to the small vessel opened and Kelt’ch got to see his first Terran. They really were as scary as the descriptions made them out to be, towering over the average Kirken at over 6 feet tall. The primate that exited was wearing a spacesuit, but underneath the protective fabric he could clearly seethe powerful muscles that could tear through an exoskeleton like paper
The Terran stumbled out of his vessel, the flightless mammal taking a few steps down the exit ramp as they looked around for a few moments, before finally taking their helmet off. This was not what Kelt’ch was expecting…
Messy wild hair, an unshaven face, and bags under their eyes from a lack of self-care. Sure, Kelt’ch had never seen a Terran in the flesh before, but they had seen pictures of their diplomats and generals on the news. This figure did not look like them. This figure looked like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag.
Confusion gave way to understanding as the Kirken remembered that the manifest had two names on it. Clearly this second person, a ‘Cameron Stanley’, was the Admiral’s bodyguard. Yes, such a rough individual made sense for a deathworlder tasked with protecting such an important person.
Kelt’ch flew over as fast as he could to greet the Terran, who was getting more and more confused. The Kirken had done their research, so Cameron had left his ship to a literal red carpet laid out in the middle of the docking bay, a small buffet of food placed to the side. Kelt’ch held out a hand in a traditional Terran greeting, which Cameron took and shook awkwardly, trying to blink past the absolute hangover he was nursing from the activities of the days before.
“Hello Terran delegate. This is station Joreial, and I am its owner, Kelt’ch. We are so glad you have decided to grace us with your presence.”
Cameron just stared blankly back at the strange insect, trying to look past his banging headache at a cargo bay which was just too bright.
“What?”
Kelt’ch paused for a few moments, before deciding that this bodyguard was clearly a man of few words, being a man of action. The Kirken guided an increasingly bewildered Cameron towards the buffet.
“The station is perfectly secure, safe and a state-of-the-art facility. You and your charge may enjoy this complimentary edible selection that I hope fulfils your deathworlder pallet!”
Cameron looked down at the selection of food laying before him. He gave an involuntary groan at the thought of eating in his current state. Just as well, since in an attempt to impress Kelt’ch had gone out of his way to procure deathworlder ready catering, making the vast majority of the food on offer very lethal to even Terrans.
“Oh I couldn't right now… but thanks!”
Another awkward pause, as both Terran and Kirken stood in silence, both waiting for the other to make the first move, a growing feeling of discontent emanating from both sides. Cameron was way too hung over to understand what was going on, so Kelt’ch had to break the silence first.
“So as you can see, everything is safe. Will the Admiral be exiting soon?”
“Who?”
The Terran turned back to look at his ship, confused, wondering if he'd picked up an extra passenger during the last week’s events, while Kelt’ch started to get worried that this was somehow a different Terran vessel.
“The second person on your manifest. An ‘Admiral CleansALot’.”
Cameron gave a laugh at that.
“Oh yeah! Well, this isn’t really his vibe. Little guy would get lost out here.”
“It really is no trouble, we can make sure that the admiral stays safe.”
Cameron gave another laugh at that, the idea of this insect protecting the Admiral making the Terran giggle, fading away as he realized the Kirken was being serious.
“Wait, you’re not joking? The Admiral can’t come out in this environment.”
There was a pause as Kelt’ch understood those words, the insect eventually deciding to get angry at them, insulted even. 5 days ago if he’d known the Admiral was too stuck up to even leave his ship, he would have been overjoyed. But after 5 days of tireless work… god-damn it he wanted some respect.
“What, am I not good enough to even be graced with his presence? I know this isn’t the best station or the most famous, but to not even give the briefest of greetings… It’s rather very rude, and shows the Terrans in a bad light.”
At this Cameron gave a single raised eyebrow, a smirk hovering over his lips.
“You want to see the Admiral? Sure. Just follow me and you can meet him!”
That was what they did, Kelt’ch following the Terran into his vessel, a dingy, dirty thing. Smaller than expected, lacking maintenance or care, a simple cargo hauler. If anything it was worse than the station, filled with empty beer cans and needing a severe deep clean. A small part of the Kirken’s mind was putting something together that this wasn’t right, but the annoyance of being snubbed by the Terran Admiral was clouding out that part of his judgement.
Finally, with an overactive flourish, Cameron pointed to the ‘esteemed’ Admiral, announcing him with an over enthusiastic and regal voice.
“Now introducing, for the station owner's pleasure, the honourable ‘Admiral CleansALot’!”
The cleaning drone trundled along the floor completely oblivious to the two people watching it, bouncing off of the walls as it did so, the tricorn hat taped to the top wobbling as it moved. Kelt’ch just stared at it for a moment, feeling all of the life drain out of his body as he watched the little mindless drone go about its cleaning.
“Is this a trick? This cannot be…”
“This is Admiral CleansALot. The ship wouldn’t run without the little dude, honestly he’s the real brains of the operation!”
Kelt’ch turned to look at the Terran, who was looking rather smug with himself.
“But why? I’ve spent the last five days doing nothing but getting ready for an Admiral to visit, and I find that you’ve given a cleaning done a military rank! But why?!”
The Terran paused for a moment, seemingly considering their next response.
“Honestly? It’s kinda funny.”
An unholy scream erupted from Kelt’ch’s thorax as the pressure of the last five days erupted in one moment. Maybe it was his exhaustion, maybe it was the illegal substances he was using in order to stay awake. But the Kirken did something he thought he’d never do, and launched himself in a rage at Cameron, trying to wrap his hands around the stupid primate deathworlder to throttle the idiot.
—-----------------
Memo to all Terran Citizens travelling outside Terran Conclave space.
Stop naming cleaning drones with official military or diplomatic titles. It confuses people.
* Jan Eagles.