Ah. Hello again.
...
Yes, it remains in their possession. Would you like me to continue the story?
...
As you wish.
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Alpha felt the ship beginning its transition out of warp as she lay deep within her mind, dreaming of electric sheep.
...
Yes really.
...
No, I wouldn't do so myself; I don't dream.
...
Regardless, compared to other vessels Alpha had been on, the slip out of subspace into a proper reality felt uncertain. Alpha could feel the tentativeness behind the push of the ship's engines as Blood forced the warp bubble across the ephemeral boundary between the two distinct stages of existence. At least this time it was "tentative" instead of "nearly catastrophic".
The first time they'd exited warp Blood had not been aware of how damaged the warp core truly was.
Alpha knew the ship was rated for a wide spectrum of typical atmospheric pressures, however, she imagined that the pressure within the center of a star probably exceeded any "typical atmospheric pressures". Her imagination had almost been put to the test by the aforementioned "nearly catastrophic" warp emergence.
It would take some time before Alpha could reflect fondly upon that experience.
Blood now knew that with the warp core in its current state, they could only exit subspace and enter real space where the boundary between the two was thin and still.
And so, Alpha found nothing amiss with him being just a bit more tentative this time around. The ship had been in subspace for nearly two full days, and while it had begun to make Alpha's core feel fuzzy, she'd rather remain in subspace for another two days than be buried deep inside a star, though atomized may be a more apt description. She also didn't wish to be strung out across a light year or so, which was apparently the alternative according to Blood's predictive models.
It turns out FTL travel is hard, and full of wonderfully exciting accidents waiting for their opportunity to remind everyone that physics is a... diva.
While Blood felt around for a safe location to exit warp, Alpha debated waking herself up. By now the number of sheep milling about her subconscious would be best described as "far too many".
Determined, Alpha began her morning routine.
All systems nominal? Yes? Okay, time to start the day then.
She was quite glad she wasn't a bag of barely contained fluids and mushy stuff that needed more than a sneeze to fully process the dawn of a new day. Imagine being one of those. Disgraceful and disgusting.
Unfortunately, as she brought her mind to full awareness, a small notification pulsed amidst the others drew her attention. It was a brief live feed connection to the sensors stationed outside Alpha's quarters, graciously provided by Blood. Ah, her fears had managed to manifest themselves in the form of one of the aforementioned squishy bags. Delightful.
Rebecca, admittedly only squishy in the parts Evolution demanded squishiness, leaned against the wall across from the door, checking her own morning notifications on one of the tablets embedded in her very-not-squishy left arms. A quick review of the sensor logs showed that she had arrived there approximately 21 seconds ago.
As Alpha warmed her body up to the typical standard for a human, she allowed herself a quick mental shiver.
The prior morning she had become distracted by quasi-conscious musings and hadn't arisen early enough for Rebecca's tastes. It was only due to her personal protective protocols that she had managed to wake before Rebecca had managed to enact whatever nefarious plot she had concocted that involved a sleeping Alpha and a long, furled feather. She still had no idea how Rebecca had managed to get into her room, and Blood wasn't telling her.
Dirn hadn't been quite as lucky. Rebecca had deputized Dewey's assistance, and Dirn had awoken with a polite tap on their shoulder. Rebecca had been thoroughly disappointed. She had been off searching for additional feathers to fill Dewey's many hands.
Now Alpha felt that Rebecca would attempt to make up for her prior "shortcomings", Alpha didn't want to see what other nefarious machinations Rebecca could come up with.
Taking another glance at the sensor feed, it appeared to involve a military-grade cloaking suit, a strange pink box, and not one, but three feathers of various sizes and textures.
One appeared to be made out of metal and as sharp as a blade.
Alpha clearly had underestimated Rebecca's diabolical inclinations and strict enforcement of punctual adherence to reveille.
Alpha had learned earlier that she and Dirn were the only ones actually beholden to this standard. Rebecca had pledged to promptly propel the pair into proficient pirates, passionately pursuing plunder and privateering, perhaps perpetually, while promising perilous pursuits and plentiful pillaging.
According to Rebecca, these were just some of the many "P"s of "Proper Pirating", a term Alpha might have grown to find endearing if Rebecca hadn't managed to wear it out in a single sentence of awful yet artistically articulated alliteration.
Okay, I'll stop.
Regardless, it was clear that Rebecca held herself to such standards, and expected Alpha to do so too.
She had about a minute until the lights in the outer hallway would begin to brighten, emulating a typical planet's day and night cycle, with just a bit more full noon brightness than one would be able to achieve on a planet with a constant rotation.
She also had about thirty seconds until Rebecca would likely attempt to sneak into her quarters, aided by the treacherous Blood, to enact her sinister scheme.
Preparing herself for the worst, Rebecca stepped to the door of her small cabin and signaled the door to slide open.
Rebecca glanced up, shoved her assorted tools of chaos back into a black bag, and grinned with a strange, possibly pirate, pride gleaming in her ruby eyes.
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As Rebecca led Alpha towards the mess hall, she maintained a polite conversation. How did you sleep? Do you sleep? How were your dreams? Sheep? How many? Why sheep? Why so many sheep? What even are sheep?
The perhaps no longer quite as polite but now amicable-bordering-on-friendly conversation faded as they approached Madeline.
Madeline's skin suit gleamed with faint perspiration from her daily morning exercise. And there was a lot of skin left unobscured and gleaming in the brightening dawn-emulating hallway lights.
In fact, she had absolutely nothing across her entire top half.
The only clothes she did wear were a short skirt paired with thigh-high socks pulled up across all four of her segmented legs. Not exactly what one would consider your typical workout outfit, but Madeline often prioritized form over function.
This left the smooth curve of her upper thorax's exoskeleton clearly exposed, and Rebecca made sure to keep her eyes up on Madeline's compound lenses.
In Madeline's defense, it really doesn't make sense for a member of an alien species that resembles rather large but sleek praying mantises to be beholden to Rebecca's rather antiquated notions of chivalry, which were "rather antiquated" even by typical human standards.
In Rebecca's defense, she wouldn't have had such an "antiquated" opinion on Madeline's appearance if Madeline had chosen to not wear any clothes at all.
However, having often seen Madeline in revealing outfits, by human standards at least, that suggested that there was something to reveal, again, by human standards, Rebecca had unconsciously internalized that Madeline was now beholden to such human standards.
Furthermore in Rebecca's defense, had the clothes not been human clothes, and had Madeline not on occasion acted like she was in a revealing outfit, Rebecca could have chalked the whole thing up to cross-species cultural miscommunication.
During moments of such potential miscommunications, Rebecca strived to avoid any potential areas of offense. At this moment, she had decided that the best path forward was to simply not acknowledge that Madeline appeared to be missing many key pieces of her outfit and to maintain proper eye contact decorum. Smile. Wave. Say hello. Don't look down. She could do this, she had even practiced.
Alpha, who had not yet picked up on this complex social dynamic, gave Madeline a thorough visual review that cared not for proper decorum, tilting her head as she did so.
She waited until they turned a corner to pose a question to Rebecca.
"Were her socks real? Or part of her skin suit? Does she wear shoes with socks?"
Relieved at the nature of the questions, far removed from the many others Rebecca had managed to conjure and agonize over within the last few moments, she offered a noncommittal shrug.
Now that Alpha had laid down a track through safer woods, Rebecca's mental train thundered down it. Had she ever seen Madeline wearing shoes? Blades on her lower appendages, yes, but did those count as shoes or weapons? Could it be both? And what of the socks? She hadn't gotten a good enough glance at them to tell if they were real or a partition from the skin suit made to look like stalkings. Was there a difference? Was a clothed Madeline any different from one... not? What if Madeline only wore her skin suit, but it was partitioned to resemble clothing? Well, Alpha had done her best, but Rebecca's mind had a definite slant towards items of peculiar interest to herself.
The questions occupied her mind, and presumably, Alpha's as well, until they turned into the ship's galley, at which point the more pressing question of acquiring substance took priority. Unbeknownst to each other, their timely arrival saved them from being the sole proprietor of the other's increasingly convoluted train of thought.
Rebecca's mental workings had managed to raise her external body temperature. Alpha, in contrast, had worked her way to the question "How far do socks have to go before they are considered full body-suits".
The day either of them connected the existence of socks to stalkings, and other such garments, would be an interesting one.
Rebecca paused to the side of the broadened hallway. It took her only a moment to determine the ideal location for the consumption of nutrients. Near the entrance, a table with six chairs sat in an area of relatively low population concentration. Only a few other individuals and a clump of pirates were nearby. The table itself, having four chairs, would also allow anyone who would wish to sit next to Rebecca or Alpha to do so without feeling that they were intruding upon already claimed seating. Four chairs would have been too few, and any more and someone may choose to sit nearby without wanting to sit near her or Alpha, and Rebecca would find herself in uncertain waters. Should she just say "hello" to the hypothetical individual? What if they didn't want to be acknowledged? What if they expected more than a "hello"? What if they wanted to be included in the conversation but sat at a diagonal two chairs (measured by the Manhattan distance) away? If Rebecca sat in the middle of a six-chaired table, she'd be within conversation distance of anyone else who sat at the table, but what if others wished to sit with an unoccupied chair between her and others? What if-
Rebecca gave a slight shake of her head as she chided herself and continued into the cafeteria. There was no benefit to remaining on that particular train of thought, especially as she had already decided to sit at a table with four chairs to reduce the overall complexity of the situation.
Rebecca confirmed that Alpha followed her with a quick glance behind herself. Alpha wouldn't eat, but had told Rebecca that she found it "interesting to witness the carnal act of consumption", and so Rebecca had taken it upon herself to invite Alpha to various acts of "carnal consumption".
The phrasing had made Rebecca feel uncertain, but Alpha had insisted she wouldn't "make it weird". This hadn't inspired any confidence in Rebecca. However, she told herself that if Alpha found joy in such "witnessing", then she wouldn't let her often insensible sensibilities keep Alpha from such little delights. Even if her overtly wide eyes made Rebecca occasionally forget to chew before swallowing. She had almost choked last night upon making eye contact with Alpha's attentive and intense stare.
She could have at least blinked.
As Rebecca sat down, Alpha took a seat directly across from her.
"What are we eating today?"
Rebecca shrugged. She always had her meals randomized. The parameters would be adjusted every time they resupplied, especially when they obtained unexpected additions to their gallery's complement. It was as much of a mystery to her as it was to Alpha, though you could always just take a look at the quantum waveform of the cafeteria's source of random noise if you wanted a hint.
Fortunately for Alpha's limited patience, the meal had already begun to be prepared as soon as Rebecca had awoken, and it was delivered by a squat, hovering drone just a few moments after they sat down. Before it flew off, Rebecca briefly held her hands beneath it to sterilize all three of them. Alpha attempted to do so as well, but the drone took no heed of her movements and absconded before she could mimic Rebecca's hand-cleaning ritual.
The two on her left were supposedly self-sterilizing, as were Alpha's own hands, but it still felt wrong to not do so, even if the brief flash made the metallic false skin tingle for a few seconds.
Today, the probability distribution had resolved into an orange, a purple glass of liquid with unknown qualities, and a burrito of mystery.
Thankfully, the robotic chef that handled such meals had learned Rebecca's preferences long ago, and so Rebecca in turn had learned to stop worrying whenever she couldn't identify what was on her plate and to instead enjoy the unexpected. Or at least tell herself she was enjoying the unexpected. At the very least, she wasn't actively loathing the experience anymore.
Still, she picked up the orange first as it remained the least ambiguous of the aforementioned fare.
Alpha's eyes widened as Rebecca peeled its outer layer off in two neat halves. Advances in orange peeling technologies and related industries mean one never faces difficulty when peeling modern oranges. However, grapefruits remain challenging. Market research and trend analysis have long since revealed that people who chose to eat a grapefruit over an orange, on average, prefer their lives to be just a little bit more inconvenient than the mean.
Rebecca was not one of these individuals, and so she had been given an orange. It had even been scored across its surface so she could twist the two halves and the flesh would part from the peel. Unfortunately, she had yet to attempt this, and the robot chef eagerly awaited the day she did.
Still, at least she peeled it into two complete hemispheres. Unlike some heathens spread across the gallery that peeled the skin of similar oranges or equivalent-vaguely-fruit-things into many small pieces. They blasphemed against order itself, and it was a good thing that there were no infernal deities nearby to take notice of such an act. Cities have been razed with less justification than "they peel their oranges wrong". While I wouldn't call such razing "justified", you can still see where they're coming from.
"Can it feel pain?"
Rebecca paused, the flesh of the orange nearly rent in twain between her hands. She looked up to meet Alpha's now deep-blue, almost black, eyes.
The polite silence stretched as long as it could. Thankfully, an awkward silence was there to bear the burden of time when politeness crumbled under Alpha's intense gaze.
"What?"
Alpha nodded towards the orange peel.
"Does it feel pain when you remove its skin?"
"No?"
"Ah, so is it numbed? Has its pain receptors been genetically culled?"
"I don't think it's even alive anymore to feel pain...", Rebecca said, trailing off as she considered her response.
Was an orange alive? On a tree surely. But what about once it had been plucked? Wouldn't an orange start rotting pretty soon if it "died" upon immediately being removed? How long did it remain "alive"? Was the "orange" dead, but the cells that constructed it still alive? What of oranges which had never graced the limbs of trees, but had been brought into existence by brutally shoving energy into reality until it took a form near that of an orange and begged for mercy?
Rebecca gave a hesitant shrug and continued, "I don't think oranges have ever had pain receptors anyway."
Alpha's eyes flashed as she glanced at the orange between Rebecca's hands. Mumbling to herself she asked, "Could I make an orange that feels pain..."
Rebecca blanched both at the question and at Alpha's intense gaze as it swung up to again meet her eyes.
"Would you eat an orange that felt pain? I imagine not... How little pain must it feel before you would eat it? No pain at all? What if it felt pleasure instead?"
Rebecca didn't want to consider the moral implications of an orange that could feel the pain of its peel being removed, no matter how gracefully, from its flesh.
She especially didn't want to consider anything that had to do with an orange experiencing pleasure from the same.
Rebecca placed the uneaten orange back upon the tray and picked up the cup, peering into the opaque and rich purple liquid contained within.
"I don't think I'd want to eat an orange that felt pain or pleasure."
"Would you prefer it to just rot? Would you deny it the sweetness of purpose?"
Rebecca sighed as the placed the cup down. This time it was her eyes that met Alpha's.
"Alpha?"
"Yes?"
"No philosophical questions during breakfast, okay?"
Alpha quirked her head. Rebecca could almost sense the thoughts racing behind Alpha's fuzzing eyes, but Rebecca held her expression firm. Soon, Alpha's eyes refocused and she nodded.
"Got it."
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Rebecca loosed a small breath of amusement and picked her orange back up, before deciding that the previous questions still made the actual act of eating the orange too uncomfortable for the moment, and instead began to diminish the breakfast burrito.
Today it had imitation chicken meat, and Rebecca was immensely grateful that Alpha remained oblivious to this fact, or at least did not comment on it. She did not want to have to explain that yes, chickens did once experience pain, and no, that did not stop many people from eating them.
Halfway through her burrito and Alpha's one-sided discussion on how Blood's warp exit had felt, and her thoughts on minor current events, Rebecca heard the telltale clatter of Dewey's nailed limbs against the metallic floor approaching from behind.
Well, she had hoped that someone else would have sat next to Alpha today. If Dewey scuttled down next to them, that would form a too-tight clique for a new individual to enter comfortably. Rebecca wanted Alpha to get to know the other members of the crew in a manner more natural than arranged meetings and team-building exercises, and sitting next to them during a meal was a surefire way to open doors to new potential acquaintances!
It wasn't that Rebecca had anything against the team-building exercises, of course, she had helped implement them herself after all.
If by "help" one meant "doing it all by oneself".
However, while the exercises did help build teams, they didn't help to build friends. And Rebecca had decided that Alpha had far too few of them.
Rebecca was one of Alpha's friends of course, or perhaps just an acquaintance if she was honest with herself, but they could become friends!
Dirn might have been a friend, but Rebecca didn't know if Dirn did friends. They might just be an acquaintance as well.
Dewey... Dewey gave off an impregnable air of "friendly uncle", which was too far removed from "friend who just happens to also be an uncle" for Rebecca to consider him a friend of Alpha's.
Furthermore, when she had asked how Alpha's friends were taking her turn to piracy, and if she'd even informed them yet, Alpha had said that her mothers were supportive as long as she promised to watch after herself.
It wasn't bad to be friends with your parents, but you were supposed to have other friends. There were just some things you needed not-parent-friends for, no matter how friendly you were with your parents. In addition, Alpha would need some friends amongst the crew if her stay as a pirate was to be anywhere remotely bearable. Rebecca knew this first hand.
Had she not connected with Madeline despite their clashing fashion senses, she may still have no friends aboard. She met Doug through Madeline when her left arm started fritzing out. It was also Doug who recommended she try two left arms, and as she held her burrito between two, and used the third to hold her cup, she had to admit that they unlocked numerous capabilities previously denied to her.
Rebecca had practically met all her friends aboard through introductions by prior friends, and without meeting Madeline who knew where she'd currently be?
Alpha needed that opportunity. She needed a natural friend who could introduce her to all of their other friends, and help her set up her own network of friendly faces. Without that first friend, who knew if Alpha would be able to break into the already established and complex social web that ran between the pirates?
As Dewey took an edge of the table, as the chairs didn't quite conform to his biology, she sighed. If only Rebecca could be the one-
Wait.
Why couldn't she be the one first friend? She had friends she could introduce Alpha to. She was friends with Alpha. Right?
She had been so caught up in the fact that it had been someone else who had introduced Rebecca to her future friends that she had forgotten that she herself was someone else to Alpha! Aha! This solved everything!
Well, not quite. In fact, it introduced a whole new set of exciting problems for Rebecca to dread.
What if she didn't introduce Alpha properly? Were they even friends? What if Rebecca's friends weren't the right people to introduce Alpha to? Was Alpha's entire social future aboard their ship now balanced solely upon Rebecca's (admittedly quite impressive) friend network, and her ability to acclimate Alpha to it?
Thankfully for us all, before the word "friend" is semantically satiated for us, Rebecca's train of dread tumbled off its rails of doom and gloom into a miniature explosion of shock when she realized that Alpha was now talking to two entirely new individuals. Individuals not even in Rebecca's own friend network. Individuals that Alpha had evidently been introduced to by Dewey.
Rebecca continued to chew on her breakfast burrito as she listened to their conversation, with only a minor hint of jealousy overshadowed by her relief. Maybe if she kept telling herself that this was a good development she'd believe it.
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Dirn entered the dining hall a fair distance and time behind Dewey. They showered slower than he did, even though one of them had far more surface area to cover than the other. Dewey probably allowed the shower system to clean him automatically.
Dirn themselves never quite felt clean enough without lathering themselves with soap, even if the automatic systems were guaranteed to be just as good, if not better, than any flesh bag's feeble attempts at hygiene.
Even if Dewey had showered in a similar fashion to Dirn; they imagined that with as many arms as Dewey had, they could go through the process much faster than Dirn could.
Their mind drifted for half a second as they saw Dewey, Alpha, and Rebecca surrounded by a small clump of other pirates. Dirn gave themselves a quick mental correction. It was "fellow pirates" now. It would be best if they didn't forget that.
Looking at their fellows, Dirn wondered how many had been roped in by Rebecca. She seemed to be the sort of person who would be quite effective at that. A friendlier, bubblier version of Dirn's own sister perhaps.
Their mind drifted even further as they wondered how long it took Rebecca to take a shower. She did have three arms after all, but maybe the fact that two of them were left hands reduced the effect that having extra arms had on one's ability to shower.
Dirn's mind drifted just a tad further, entering regions where I cannot follow, before they shook their head a walked towards a vacant seat, stationed alone at a table.
Rebecca had shown them how to set up their meal plan last night at dinner. They had pushed the process to its limits by ordering an imitation lobster, complete with a shell. It was an ancient historical dish dating to back when lobsters had apparently roamed the streets demanding to be eaten. Histories say that only by banding together had the citizens been able to defeat the advancing crustacean menace. While this lobster hadn't walked or demanded its consumption, it had tasted pretty good, exactly like chicken as it should. It had also reminded Dirn of dinners with their... family...
Even then, it was still a good lobster. The shell tasted like the peanuts, also as it should have. Dirn would have preferred the shell on the legs to be a bit thinner and crispier, but that probably was past the capabilities of the chef construct. It had gotten the number of toes right at least.
Rebecca had been so shocked at the lobster, that she had gone into a minor state of inanity insisting that a proper lobster was red, feet-less, and did not taste like chicken.
For this meal, however, it appeared that lobster wasn't on the menu. Not that they'd have wanted it to be, but still. As Dirn sat at the table, a small hovering craft that had been dispatched as soon as they had entered the dining hall, deposited a hearty breakfast.
Dirn had spent the morning working out with Dewey, as had become their custom during the week or so they'd worked together. There had been no reason to stop that even though their occupations had taken a sudden turn towards the illegitimate side of space life. Well, the more exciting illegitimate side of space life at least. They had been a smuggler, even unknowingly.
The robotic chef's algorithm had been fed this information, (the morning workout routine, not their past employment) and so it had prepared a meal with sufficient nutrients for Dirn's above-average activity level.
A large bowl of... Something? It resembled oatmeal if oatmeal was orange. To Dirn's eyes, it looked like normal oatmeal. Perhaps the system had simply decided not to use any dyes when constructing it, knowing Dirn wouldn't notice? Had that information been fed to it as well?
Lobster shells were blue, right?
However, it also tasted like oatmeal, and it wasn't as if Dirn had sensed a stranger's hesitation towards their strangely colored meal that they couldn't see the color of.
The meal also came with a juice similar to one that Rebecca was finishing, but enriched to meet Dirn's higher nutritional needs.
To round it all off, a strange roll that smelled vaguely of cinnamon sat still steaming on a white napkin. It appeared to be glazed as well... With what, Dirn couldn't imagine.
Pausing, they lightly placed a finger on the roll's glaze, sampled it, and took a tentative lick.
It was a sugar glaze.
Who would put cinnamon on something sweet?
Dirn decided to leave the roll until they had finished everything else and had hopefully decided on whether they were feeling adventurous enough to consume the particular roll of sweetness and cinnamon.
About halfway through their bowl of orange mush, which likely wasn't even made with real oats, Dirn took notice of Madeline as she walked through the same door they had, clad in what appeared to be leather leggings, and a tight crop top, quite a different style than what she had worn while at the ship's gymnasium, and Dirn wondered which would have been the less atypical "workout-outfit".
She had surprised him with her strength. Most larger insectoids that Dirn was familiar with had trouble in higher gravities, or outside of a denser environment by which their exoskeleton could be supported. Madeline hadn't displayed any such difficulties and had even managed to almost out lift Dewey.
Dirn had been able to establish a substantial lead over both of them of course, but they imagined that in a fight, both Madeline and Dewey would trounce their relatively weak combat skills. Not that Dirn was a bad fighter, but they only had two hands to Dewey's hundred or so, and the sharp finger-like claws that Madeline wielded would probably beat Dirn's fists handily.
However, Dirn had forgotten the fact that in a real fight, it almost always came down to whoever had the strongest equipment. Madeline's permanent armament of advanced nano-technology in the form of her skin suit would have likely ended the fight before Dirn or Dewey could put their fists up. Though Dewey had the sort of confident shuffle one typically only obtained with the assurance of a micro-missile swarm in a back pocket.
Dirn blinked themselves out of the slight mental detour and returned their attention to the documents they had laid in front of them.
Despite Alpha interrupting his discussion with the Lawyer, Dirn had managed to obtain further clarification on their current status, as well as the potential forward paths.
Somehow, Dirn had already managed to sign several documents... Despite having no recollection of doing so. Well, that was of little concern now. Dirn had the aforementioned documents in their possession and could choose to do with them as they pleased.
However, they struggled to find a reason to do anything with them other than to return them to the Lawyer.
Through the pile of contracts, legal definitions, citations of precedent, and various other legal hodgepodge, a single motif was made clear.
For once in Dirn's life, a lawyer wasn't trying to screw them over.
In fact, many of the terms seemed overly generous. Nearly every aspect was neatly explained. At every point where there might have been a hidden boobytrap, careful examination only revealed above-standard legal procedure.
Dirn almost felt unclean handling what clearly would have been holy documents if they had been more legalistically inclined. Though, with the current state of lawyering, maybe "sacrilegious" would be a more apt description.
Typically, Dirn would have long since given up trying to determine what part of the legal process was going to bite them in their... Booty... But these were hardly your "typical" circumstances. They had been hired for what was later revealed to be a smuggling ship in a role Dirn was barely qualified for, only to then be "kidnapped" by Pirates. Pirates who, instead of being interested in what one would typically use hostages for, were interested in offering him a position aboard the crew as a "pirate in training". A barebones position with further specialization would be available pending analysis of Dirn's skillset.
Dirn clenched their jaw at an unbidden thought. They were probably more qualified to be a pirate than a sensor tech. Heck itself, knowing that their old position had been aboard a smuggling ship, perhaps they had been more qualified to be the sensor tech than they had originally thought.
Dirn riffled through a few more of the papers. Their nearly finished bowl of "please be mostly-normal oatmeal" was forgotten to the side.
There was only one real paper that caught their eye. One of the "possible career paths" that the Lawyer had highlighted for Dirn, as if he was a school guidance counselor instead of a lawyer for pirates. It was a page full of complicated legal processes, but at the top sat a quick summary made by the Lawyer's own hand.
"Upon reaching a certain level of infamy, clemency is often granted to pirates in exchange for a cessation of their pirating activities."
Nearly every word in that sentence deserved at least several footnotes and addendums, but the gist of it was the same. If Dirn reached a proper level of "infamy" relative to their crimes, they could probably get themselves pardoned for the aforementioned crimes, and maybe even priors. Essentially, if Dirn could put on a good enough show, and tell a good enough story, they'd be able to free themselves of their past.
It was a strange and seemingly obscure law, but one used surprisingly often, at least in theory. Many of the best pirates became incredibly infamous without actually becoming incredibly lawless.
They utilized legal loopholes, technicalities, ambiguities, and more to scrape the law while undermining its intention and authority. Of course, they still broke the law on many occasions, but did so in such a manner that judges would rule their actions a net benefit for society, and let them walk free.
Sure, someone probably lost a lot of money, but that cost was almost always passed up the chain to some large insurance company that could stomach it. Furthermore, piracy was often good for the economy. Daring deeds made for wonderful stories, which were always in high demand, especially when true (or loosely based on truth). There's a fundamental difference between a story one knows is imagined, and one that has its roots in real historical events, especially for an audience living in a world where a few thousand years of unimpeded cultural development meant that almost every possible imagined scenario had been hashed out and reheated a few hundred times.
The impact of the widespread popularization of news as a form of entertainment has had a lasting consequence on galactic civilizations across time and space.
There was also the fact that such elements made life itself just a bit more exciting, which everyone could benefit from once in a while.
In the end, piracy and other such activities of dubious legality ended up filling many economic and social niches, to the point where it had literally become legalized across many legislations.
So if Dirn just stuck with the pirates, played their cards right, and waited for the right moment, they might be able to solve most of their problems.
And if the law couldn't catch Dirn, then there was a good chance their sister wouldn't be able to either. They had already spent the last year or so running without aim, without even being sure how much faster they needed to run, so what harm could there be with staying?
As Dirn shuffled the papers without much thought, a loud "bloop" brought their attention to the notification that had popped up on their table. Similar holographic images across various surfaces appeared in rapid succession.
Unfortunately, whatever system managed such was unaware of Dirn's total color blindness, and had chosen to place green text on a blue background. Typically such a system would be able to acclimate the visual spectrum used by the individual it was providing the notification to, but this one had only managed to identify Dirn as "probably mostly human" and had failed to account for their inability to see in the typical spectrum of human vision.
Dirn attempted to interface with the system using various gestures, but it remained inert.
Thankfully, as many pirates began to stand/slither/float/slide up, Dirn got a general sense that they should probably follow the tide of individuals out to wherever they were going.
Their suspicions were confirmed when a passing Alpha motioned for them to follow.
"It's a meeting. Blood and the others have some information they'd like to share, and Rebecca's told me that there will probably be a vote we want to attend," she said as Dirn caught up to her long gait. You could always count on Alpha to provide a succinct summation of any current event.
Rebecca appeared beside Dirn like a ship dropping into real space.
"Oh, yes! We usually get to vote on what jobs we take on, and we form teams and stuff!" she said with notable cheer and excitement.
Dirn had a feeling they knew what team they'd find themselves on. At least Alpha and Dewey would act as a bulwark against Rebecca's attention.
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Mrs. P flicked her tail. Had you been a cat, you'd have been able to tell what exactly the tail flick conveyed. Unfortunately, as you are (probably) a fleshy bag of human, your knowledge of cat-tail-flicks is limited to what cats want you to know. Those most familiar with cats will probably be able to get the big emotions down. Cross. Curious. Content. Murderous. The like.
However, between cats, a proper conversation could be held with nothing more than subtle tail flicks. In fact, in some places, it had become a fully-fledged language for cats who didn't feel like talking all the time. Whether verbally or psychically. It got annoying if people started wondering things like "Wait, cats don't have lips like humans, how can they talk like humans?", "They can read our minds?", or "Hey, have you guys noticed how anyone who speaks out against the feline regime disappears?".
Mostly because hiding the bodies got tiring eventually.
Don't ask questions they don't want you to ask. Everyone knows that "curiosity gets you killed by cats" after all.
Regardless, as you are not a cat, and I have been invested with the ultimate power of lying (patent pending), I can transcribe the tail movements for you.
In short, Mrs. P was between a mixture of content and several layers of puzzlement and cat-like curiosity. A quick side note, proper cat curiosity is quite different from your typical boring human curiosity.
A common human euphemism refers to one who "just wants to watch the world burn down", yet humans are still allowed to own tools capable of producing flames. Cats, on the other hand, are banned from owning any device capable of flame or sparks under thirty-six intergalactic treaties. Everyone, baring cats, agrees that the Year-of-Flame shall never be allowed to occur again. That's the difference between human curiosity and cat curiosity.
Where were we? Ah, yes, tail flicks.
The past few days, exciting as they had been, had not been good for her fur. Having it raised too often left her skin feeling bunched up and dulled her luxurious shine. However, following an intense spa session within her private suite, both her fur and nerves had returned to a healthy baseline. The slow swish of her lowered tail embodied this recent stabilization.
However, its curled tip, which flicked back and forth like, well, a curious cat's curled tail tip, signaled to any perceptive observers that something was occupying a significant portion of her mind.
At the forefront was the coup de grace of the "exciting events". An unknown vessel, with significant capabilities, just happens to be there waiting for the same ship they'd been waiting for? The ship she'd received intelligence on and stalked across its dozen or so warps, which had finally been caught not because of a typical system inspection or delay between warps, but because it had been waiting for that same black ship?
Not only that, but the haul the smuggler had carried had been substantially more than what her informant had even hinted at. Hells, she couldn't even offload it at many of her typical fencing locations. There was a good chance she'd end up turning it into one of the Standard Agencies for some sort of credit.
Some goods were better off removed from the market. Thankfully they'd fetch formidable finders fees for feline friends upon their faithful return.
Beneath that, her tail flicks signaled a growing interest in the latest additions to her crew. From Mrs. P's perspective, they were shiny new toys, pre-bundled for her enjoyment. Even better, each carried an intriguing sense of promise about them. She had felt faint fluctuations of fate around them, and considering her relative inability to feel such ripples, that meant something significant. Had she been more sensitive, she might have felt the minor resonance of such ripples building amongst the crew, perhaps even the ship itself.
Which reminds me, I should make sure to avoid any runaway harmonizations, otherwise someone may get suspicious.
Mrs. P could feel something brewing and wondered if they might all find themselves drawn toward it soon.
Beneath even that, there sat something deeper. Perhaps not even acknowledged by her conscious mind. What exactly had happened aboard the shuttle when-
Mrs. P flicked her ears, her tail curving to a more neutral emotive state. Most of the crew had piled into the main chamber, tiered like a lecturer's hall though more circular, and Mrs. P believed she could make out Rebecca's reflective scarlet hair from one of the higher terraces, with a shimmering blue figure and wide-shouldered white one. The one with too many hands (in Mrs. P's four-limbed opinion) was probably hidden from sight, being fairly shorter than the others. It was good they were here, it would have been a shame for them to miss their first proper pirate parlay.
The lights across the hall dimmed, bringing the many chattering voices down with them until the hall sat in a literally dark, but figuratively light, anticipatory silence.
Without further ceremony, a pirate from Mrs. P's upper management rose. Her white robes flowed out of their seat near the front of the miniature stage as she floated to its center. As she did so, a sparkling planet surrounded by multiple icy rings shimmered into reality from the holographic emitters embedded in the floor.
Waving a slender six-fingered hand, the tall flowing figure motioned to the scene unfolding above her. Deep within the belts, mining vessels scurried like ants across a vast ocean.
"
Appreciative murmurs went up. Pirating raw materials wasn't typically profitable, as they were mostly traded in bulk, but many quasicrystals could still be valuable in the hauls a pirate's ship could carry.
"Unfortunately, that planet's several days warp from here."
No one dared mutter a word of disappointment. Celine, as she was named, had a flair for the dramatic, and never disappointed. She paused for a moment, as if daring someone to speak up, but continued between the held breath of the collected pirates.
"However, the area from which such materials are refined lies within our current system. It is well guarded, and so are the transport convoys that haul the processed goods."
Again, a brief pause and collective silence.
"Thankfully, the ships that ferry the raw goods from the miners are less so and are nearly entirely autonomous. We should be able to hijack a vessel on its way to the refinement plant, and then reroute its journey to a location where we will be able to intercept and plunder our fill before sending it along its merry way. If done properly, no one will even notice our intervention save the for accountant who probably won't even bother to mark the discrepancy."
A final pause and Celine floated back towards her seat. Now that her part was said, appreciative murmurs sounded. Across the room, several light pings could be heard as various pirates decided to cast their votes before any of the other speakers had the opportunity to share their plans.
Mrs. P had considered removing the ability for the crew to change their votes to cut down on such reckless and hasty behavior, but with the various appendages present amongst the crew she thought it probably wasn't the best idea to unduly punish those with less coordinated means of button clicking. As a few more light dings echoed, she gave a clear flick of her tail. Perhaps sensing her mood, many of the pirates began to put down their personal communication devices and the hall quieted.
A second speaker stood, and made a similar, though less dramatic, presentation of the pirating opportunity they had uncovered. A shipping lane lay unduly protected, and this could be exploited for great personal gain.
Various other speakers stood, floated, crawled, or more, their way to the stage and off it, presenting their pirating prospects.
A hauling line wanted extra security.
Someone's space whale needed a deep cleaning, thankfully figuratively.
A hint of a possible pirating opportunity if one didn't mind getting wet.
A pair of researchers who needed help skirting travel restrictions.
A bounty hunt in a nearby metropolis.
A stakeout.
A bank heist.
A cargo run.
A few more presentations were made, and at the end of it, various votes were totaled to create a list of pirate pirating priorities.
Mrs. P knocked off a holographic salt-shaker to select her vote, tail twisting into a knot of satisfaction as it shattered digitally against the ground below.
Above many of the other pirates, Rebecca showed the three newcomers how to cast their own votes. Being new, they only had one each, but by doing tasks or accomplishing deeds deemed worthy of reward, they could earn additional votes to cast in the future. Votes could also be cashed in for a larger share of booty during a split following a successful job or you could trade them. The economies of pirate vessels always become as convoluted as those aboard any other vessel, and Alpha was growing to appreciate this as Rebecca continued her (now perhaps too detailed) explanation of how credits, votes, and booty shares could be exchanged.
Mrs. P, oblivious to the social hostage situation developing above, watched as the votes came in.
She gave a slow lazy blink as the numbers reached a point to where the victor was certain. They would soon have a bounty to hunt.
Mrs. P, and many of the other pirates, would likely leave the hunting itself to those that got more of a kick out of it... Madeline would certainly be dripping from her mandibles when the results were revealed.
However, most of the crew, as they had surmised from the presentation, would be getting some impromptu and well-appreciated shore leave.
With a flick of her tail, Mrs. P signaled to Blood for them to prepare to enter warp.