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Catherine the Great, Chapter Two
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Subject: FTA, _The Life and Adventures of Catherine the Great_ (2 of 4)
From: [email protected] (Perigon Neptune)
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Date: Sun, 28 May 95 23:20:00 -0600
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FTA, The Life and Adventures of Catherine the Great, (2 of 4).
By: Peter Unicorn (redvane) circa 1992.
Filename: kapella.txt
---------------------- cut here ----------------------------------
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CATHERINE THE GREAT
PART TWO
I SHIFT THE BLAME TO THE WORM IN THE BOTTLE
"...Silk Skin Paws,
Hang by both feet,
Embracing the World,
Hang the expense,
Breugel's cut corners,
Wring out the senses,
I have nothing like it,
I've seen nothing like it..."
WIRE "Silk Skin Paws"
"Good Morning Kapella. This is KSVN News transmitting to the Kapella Magna
sector and the Ursid Colonies on Dirac 497 Channel Twelve around the clock,
bringing you all the local system and transgalactic news as it happens where
it happens.
This morning's headlines on KSVN: An uprising in the Dralasite sector has
resulted in the fall of the Adrakkan parliament, A passenger vessel collides
with a cargo drone with the loss of all aboard,"
I opened my eyes, the HV projector cast a flat-screen image of a green
scaled Kapellan, black lizard eyes staring intently from the screen as he
spoke in a measured, serious but slightly nasal tone; behind him was the
swirl and fragmentation of the station logo in Kapellan characters and a HV
projector showing scenes of a deep-space rescue. The characters at the bottom
of the screen read;
KSVN - Kapella Sector Video Net - D497/12 - Live Tx 07:00
".. A power failure on Ursa Orbital Port Two causes a massive evacuation
alert and, at the Fifty Fourth Galactic Olympiad, triple Platinum for
Ch'Kenther in the track and field but dissapointment for the Kapellan Zero-G
netball team, beaten 20-7 by Terra New Atlantis. Also coming up in this
newscast..."
Silvermoon whistled a cheer from behind me as the HoloVid projected a
dolphin striking a silver ball into a conical net with his tail flukes before
an ecstatic, cheering crowd of various races. I joined her in the cheer, even
though I was a Terra London supporter myself. My delphine companion swam two
rapid circuits of the pool before sliding onto the hydrostatic bed which
floated a couple of centimetres below the surface. I rolled over and draped
an arm across her back, looking deep into a beady black eye.
"Good morning, Fishface."
"You're awake then! You're wanted by Her Majesty on the flight deck; haul
ass, Simian!"
"Charming! Whatever happened to traditional delphine tact?"
"We've been associating with humans too long and we've lost it."
Silvermoon chortled and rolled away from my grasp and off the bed before
swimming for the exit hatch. I gave a resigned sigh, bootstrapped the biosoft
and struck out for the temple steps.
"I hope you like classical greek architecture because it's staying that way
for a few weeks yet."
Sliandra didn't look up from the terminal into which she was intently
peering as she imparted this fait accopli to me. I wandered across the flight
deck to where she sat and peered over her shoulder. The terminal displayed a
list of weaponry together with prices and current availability.
"Let me guess; the Dralasite revolution take thirty-five."
"In one."
I pointed to an item on the list, "These are always in demand by a guerilla
army, and the're pretty cheap too."
"You'd think that the number of times they have revolutions on that
misbegotten planet that they would have sunk under a mountain of weapons by
now," Sliandra mused as she punched up the details and a holovid of a Thorens
& Karel KV8 Gauss rifle rotated above the terminal in perfect miniature.
"We already have a cargo, I sorted that one out as soon as the news of the
uprising broke." she indicated the terminal beside her which was displaying
the classified ads of Dirac magazine entitled "Soldier Of Fortune". "I put an
ad in there that was answered in seven minutes by a nice group of assorted
creatures of a militaristic persuasion who rejoice in the title of McReid's
Maurauders."
"Lovely, were hauling mercs!"
"Please! Please!" Sliandra looked up with an expression of mock alarm on
her feline face, "they are soldiers of fortune."
"And you're my grandmothers pet tabby!"
"I thought you would be pleased to be getting back into the hot-dog flying
scene; dodging the Confederation monitor ships and all that."
"Like hell I am," I retorted, "I had quite enough of that kind of flying;
antique and underpowered fighters, pulling real G's trying to outmanoeuvre
someone who's trying to insert a plasma bolt into your brain. Forget it."
"It'll be different, you're flying Catherine now."
"That's worse, and what about Silver? One plasma cannon shot into the
inertial stabilisers and we get twenty tonnes of salt water and a highly
pissed off dolphin floating about flight deck; or worse."
"We've done it before."
"Outrunning customs cutters and putting tac-nukes up the tailpipes of
pirate ships yes. But you want to take us up against the big league
Confederation frigates and destroyers.
"Straight thirds split of the proceeds?"
"How much?"
"Fifty K, each."
"Ah..."
"I'll let Silvermoon know." Sliandra stood and padded towards the pool
stairs. I shrugged and took the pilots chair, calling up the flight vectors
and approach grids onto the monitors. Fifty thousand Galcreds; That was an
awful lot of money. Confederation Dragon Class carriers like the ship I'd
served on, the CMV Mnementh; That was an awful lot of risk.
From below me came the rapid crossfire of conversation in three languages:
Amthren, English and Delphine. Silvermoon was voicing similar oppositions to
Sliandra's latest venture, hers principally centered on the speed of
Catherine's primary nav-comp which Silvermoon described in eloquent Delphine
as "The biggest heap of sharkshit in the Western Spiral Arm." I decided that
maybe she had been around humans too long after all.
Eventually, as I brought Catherine gracefully into Kapella Magna station,
we won a day's stopover before taking our cargo on board. They were to be in
two crates marked on the manifests as "foodstuffs"; rather appropriate I felt.
We would be hauling genuine consumables as well as the mercenaries and we were
to offload at a farside transit station as was common on a planet who had a
navigation rating of H6 (Surface hostilities in progress). What the
mercenaries did after that was up to them. Providing we didn't get searched,
the money was as good as in that lovely little Acturan numbered account.
And Kapella was the place to spend some of it....
"Ok everybody, remember where we parked," I said as I walked down the short
tunnel that extended from the airlock to the space station itself. The tunnel
itself was a two tier affair, a catwalk gantry was slung from the roof above a
two metre deep watercourse; stationside, the corridors widened, walkway and
watercourse running side by side.
"You say that every time we leave the ship," Silvermoon said, speaking
english.
"That's because you always forget; for a navigator you have a lousy sense
of direction."
The reply didn't have a translation into english, but it turned the head of
a dolphin who was swimming in the opposite direction.
We reached the travel tube station at the end of the corridor and Sliandra
spoke;
"Fourty eight hours everyone; I trust that normal stopover procedures will
apply."
Silvermoon and I made affirmative noises.
It was a ten minute trip by tubeway to my destination and, as I stood
outside the glittering opulence of the brightly lit entrance lobby I had the
wonderful feeling that I had come home. It was early evening, Kappella Magna
time, and the recreation deck of the massive orbiting waystation was beggining
to hum into life as the first of the nocturnal patrons of the bright
pleasuredome showed themselves and paraded in their finery. The doorway
before which I stood belonged to that most notorious of pleasure palaces in
the western spiral arm, the gateway to the nine levels of reckless abandon and
general good times was that of Lovecraft's Bar.
The place had been set up by a trader from Terra who was born in what was
once Provedence USNA, and had named his first humble little watering hole
after the region's most famous son. Fifty years later his bar had grown into
the nine storey pleasure palace that drew creatures from across the galaxy
like a black hole with its whispers of forbidden pleasures.
A blue furred Fidelian brushed past me, his pale neck ruff set like a stole
against his darker body fur, he was arm in arm with a young terran woman who
was laughing as something he had said. I smiled and followed them in.
There was nothing whispered about the music that assaulted me on the first
level as I walked through the SonScreen doors into the plush red carpeted bar.
The first band of the evening were well into their set, playing a hard edged
Terran music from the early 21st century, the guitar line fast against the
deep soaring synthesiser chords and intricate layered drum pattern. The power
and energy of the busy bar started to seep into body like a drug, infusing my
being with a feeling of strength and purpose. I stood to one side for a
while, casting my gaze over the scene, drinking it in: the masses of
different races and forms, the water creatures in the channels that snaked
alongside the walkways and opened into pools beside many of the tables, their
occupants chatting to land creatures who sat beside them or groups of myriad
peoples watching the band perform, applauding as they finished one song and
started another. I applauded too as they launhced into an old favourite song
of mine, Riding the Nightmare's "Aaraakan". I left for the quieter climes of
the second level as they finished the song, the plaintive cry of the guitars
building to the explosion of the last chorus.
The second level was a particular favourite of mine. The decor here was
blue and green, exotic flora fell in waterfalls from the roof, hedges of
living green made small alcoves and bowers, lending the bar an atmosphere of
intimacy. I wandered to the bar and ordered a Perrier. A dreadful vice of
mine I know, the stuff is flown out from Terra France and is prohibitavely
expensive but it does speak volumes for the purchaser's affluence. The
Kapellan bar-creature (I have trouble telling Kapellan sexes apart, after all,
they do have five different ones) took my CredCard and, after carefully
vetting it, handed it back, my Acturan account some twenty C's poorer; I
hoped that people would notice.
I was lucky for it turned the head of the woman who was stood beside me at
the bar. You must realise that I lose the term "woman" loosely in this
context, the female creature whose interest had been piqued by my order was a
female Cumragan, a bipedal canid who stood some two metres tall.
"Interesting choice of beverage."
She spoke english with care and precision, obviously someone who had cause
to use the language often and needed to get it right first time.
"Thank you," I replied, turning to her, "may I offer you a glass?"
"Not at the moment, I already have a drink."
I glanced to her right hand which rested lightly on the rim of a vessel
somewhat reminiscent of a brandy snifter which contained a dark red liquid.
The hand looked more or less like that of a human albeit one with three short
fingers and an opposable thumb, each digit terminating in a manicured black
claw, a coarse black-brown fur covered the back of the hand. I looked up to
her face to acknowledge her declination with a nod of my head which was
received with a similar gesture. Her face was almost the same as that of an
extinct terran canine known as the timber wolf but the black eyes had none of
the deep, soulful qualities of the Terran creatures, these eyes were sharp and
incisive, a small black pupil surrounded by a dark brown iris, set deep into
the face, heavy bone protecting them. They cut like knife into me as she
returned my glance; here, clearly was a woman not to be crossed lightly. She
wore a loose fitting gown of silver cloth shot through with aquamarine
threads, the fashion apparently chosen to compliment the decor of the
establishment.
"Please, allow me to introduce myself, I am known a Ar'trath McReid" she
said in a more relaxed tone.
"I'm Peter Greenacre," I replied, "just passing through, and yourself?" I
used the old starpilot's phrase just to see if she would recognise it; she
apparently did not. The name started to gnaw away at my mind, I was sure that
I had heard it before
"Likewise," she said, "I should be leaving tomorrow for the Dralasite
colonies,"
Then the galcred dropped and in a flash I noticed the concealed holster for
a micropistol and connected the name to the special cargo that we were
hauling.
"And it would appear from your expression that you are heading in a similar
direction?" she continued. I gulped at my Perrier.
"McReid's Marauders," I said in a hushed voice, "I was, er, expecting
someone taller."
"And human?"
"That too, I didn't know that the Cumragans got involved in that sort of
thing these days."
"Officially not, but love and death has always been the way of the Cumraga
Nation and now that we are fully paid up members of the Confederacy we have to
find outlets for our more, shall we say, destructive urges."
"And the other urges?"
"That, as you well know in your capacity as a member of the Trader Nation,
we find little problem with."
I smiled at her witticism, it was true that the CIST subculture were best
known for three things: fancy spaceships, hauling anything to anywhere and
unorthodox liaisons; oh yeah, and very good taste in music.
"Tell me," she continued, "how is your ship's navigator, Silvermoon?"
I did a double take; here was someone who had done her homework on the
ship she had chartered.
"She's fine and she's the best navigator in the WSA by far."
"Excellent, you all came highly recommended to us, you especially with your
knowledge of the area we will be flying through."
"That was a different war and a different ship and the Dralasites will not
be happy if they get around to recalling I stole the fighter I was supposed to
be using to strafe a city!"
"That was a suicide attack, they think that you are dead."
"I very nearly was."
She nodded and looked down at her drink, the subject was evidently closed.
She looked up, bringing her six-clawed furry hands together.
"Do you have any set plans for the rest of your stay on Kapella Magna?"
Her face was unreadable as that of my beloved Silvermoon but long years with
my delphine lover have taught me to read body language in more than just a
facial movement, her gesture was the equivalent of a raised eyebrow.
"Not as such," I replied.
I awoke curled up against her lithe and furry body. I stayed like that for
a few minutes, savouring the curious sensation and wondering how I was going
to explain the salient points of the previous evening to my dear dolphin. I
was curious as to how she had spent her time but I was sure that I'd soon find
out. I recall that during our last stationside stopover at the galactic
capital planet of Acturus that she'd been in a rather interesting foursome
with her brother, the drummer of the PHR band "Enochian Key" and a male of the
centaur-like race called the Itshai. We'd had "Ilasa Viviala Pereta" on the
ship's hi-fi system for about a month after that particular episode. I wish
I'd got a holovid of that particular encounter.
Ar'trath stirred, scratched an ear with a claw and opened her eyes; there
was a wicked feral gleam in them and she licked her lips with a carmine
tongue.
"Recovered?" she asked, as she reached for me, rolling over to lay atop me,
her hands upon my chest.
"Lips ready for service, Eyes steady for peeling." I said, quoting the
lines of a famous song, to my surprise she came back with the next lines as
she pushed her lower body against mine.
"Bring on the special guest, A monkey caught stealing."
I reached up for her head and took the pointed jaw in my hands, she smiled
exposing a wicked row of teeth before raising her head to bear her throat to
me, the universal body language of acquiescence. With a twist of our bodies I
slipped inside her to a simultaneous growling cry which escaped both our lips.
Slowly she began to rock backwards and forwards, pushing herself deeper as she
braced her paws against by chest, arching her back to take the plunderer
within her. The walls of her hot cunt seemed to wrap themselves around me
like a shroud, clinging as she moved back and forth, back and forth, growling
in her throat. I took a hold of her, pulling her deeper and closer, her scent
of desire was in my nostrils, a curious smoky fragrance, powerful and
intoxicating. Steadily she increased her rhythm, moving swifter and swifter,
the honeyed walls of her cunt slithering with delightful friction against my
staff, our breathing coming in jerks and spasms as I bucked to meet her short,
sharp jabs which became more and more rapid in time with our moans and cries.
Faster and faster we coupled, chasing that elusive and universal release.
Faster and faster. Faster and Faster....
Sweet and swift was that release, flitting ephemerally between us in a
feedback loop from a whisper to a scream which shook the stars; fleeting away
as quickly as it had come.
In the langour of lust's passing we lay in each other's arms, she muttering
words in the snuffled bark of Cumragan Battletalk, offering her body in the
cause of war to her world's Deities of War and Lust. I knew little of what
she spoke but I recall my own words offered to Ishtar, the Goddess of Love and
War, before the ridiculous scrapes I managed to get myself and my craft into
in days gone by. Living the life of a StarFighter was hard, fast and, for the
most part, bloody stupid; "Fly all day. Party all night. Never grow old.
Never die. It's fun to be a StarPilot." went our motto, stolen and
paraphrased from a twentieth century movie; Ishtar was a very sensible
Goddess to be putting your trust in at the time. It was when I went freelance
and ended up being ordered to attack a heavily defended city in an
underpowered, underarmoured and under-almost-everything-else fighter that I
said my last prayer to Ishtar and got the fuck out of the killing people
department. I turned to look at Ar'trath, her eyes closed, speaking an
utterly alien tongue. The battle urge runs deep; it isn't the fighting
itself, in the thick of a skirmish your opponents cease to be creatures like
yourself, they become targets to be hit before they hit you; the adrenalin
rush hits you and you're away. Of course in these enlightened times the
battle urge and adrenalin rushes were largely catered for by non lethal means,
the pleasure complexes that lay on the planet's surface five thousand clicks
below where we lay were testament to that, but there were enough worlds
outside the Confederacy to keep the Ar'trath McReids and the young Peter
Greenacres in freelance chaos for what seemed like forever. Still, I thought
as I continued to watch her devotions, Martin Luther King would be proud of
us, maybe we hadn't as a people reached the promised land he saw, but his
vision of races living together in harmony was certainly making good progress.
Ar'trath suddenly finished and sat up.
"Time to hit the spacelanes," she said through her peculiar canine
smile that looked like she was about to take my head off.
I shrugged and booted the BioSoft, grimacing at time display so that it all
but leapt off the chips and scuttled down the corridor to hide.
"Right," I replied, "Which way did the war go?"
The war was, apparently, going nowhere. The newscaster, possessed of a
name not even my modified vocal chords could manage to pronounce, informed us
of pitched battles in the streets of the Dralasite capital and each side
claiming to have control, a sure sign that neither of them did. I made my own
way back to where we had berthed Catherine. Ar'trath was aware of the nature
of the relationship between Silvermoon and myself and, once on the ship, she
became just so much cargo.
So much cargo?
When they clambered out of the cargo cannisters to blink in the glare
of Cath's cargo bay halogen floods I thought that these guys could probably
conquer Dralasa on their own. I thought I'd been in some skirmishes and used
some serious technology in my time but these dweebs were carrying enough
armour to start a major interplanetary conflict.
"Pretty, aren't they?" said a voice at my elbow.
"Morning Chief," I said without looking up from the monitor, "have a
pleasant stopover."
"Not bad, not bad at all," she purred, "Seen Pretty Dolphin recently?"
"Came aboard two minutes ago but I haven't spoken to her yet."
"Right, lets get these morons into battle and earn ourselves some money."
"Was that a Corenian I saw down there?" I asked as I wandered towards the
helm.
"Certainly was."
"He was carrying a SAPO wasn't he?"
"Yep."
"He does know that if it goes off he could blow a twenty metre hole clear
through our pressure hull and probably take out a couple of levels of KM's
docking bays?"
"He's a pro, he wouldn't be carrying a Particle Oscillator if he didn't
know how to use it. Anyway, for a Corenian he's very nice...." there was a
pause, "...Whoops!"
"You too, huh?"
"They got you as well?"
"I got the chief."
"Didn't know you liked werewolves."
"I didn't know you liked Sub Atomic Particle Oscillator wielding lion-
centaurs."
"Was it the 'divine marquis' of your world that said something about as old
pleasures where exhausted one should strive to find new ones?"
"True, but he died in the lunatic asylum at Charenton."
"Granted."
"Any good?"
"Pretty decent at what he did, a bit limited in the creativity department
though," Sliandra said, "Want to see the vid?" she added as an afterthought.
"I might have known," I said, seating myself in the pilot's chair, flipping
the power switches on the displays and feigning interest in their test
sequences, "Go on then."
Sliandra yelped her delight and brought up the local area display on the
main HV that floated above Silvermoon's bridge tank before activating the
hacking program which linked it to the entertainments computer - strictly
against safety regulations but who cares.
"Here we go." she purred as the screen flickered to reveal the huge bull
Corenian on his side, his hands tied behind his back, his four legs hobbled
together. The camera appeared to be a fixed angle view from a ceiling level
corner mount, my guess was that it was a hidden CCD job, the picture was
digital quality and evidently computer enhanced but there was no soundtrack.
The Corenian's cock was erect, a livid swollen purple which stood out against
his light tawny fur. My captain was crouched behind him, alternately stroking
it and then bending down to take the organ in her mouth with a smacking motion
of her lips; judging by the way he jumped about at these points I surmised
that she wasn't just using her tongue.
"Sadist." I muttered.
"Chacun ? son gout." she replied.
A rapid dissolution into gales of laughter followed - If you've ever heard
a Leopard Amthren laugh you'll know what I mean.
As I wiped the tears from my eyes I continued to watch the HV; the
Corenian was getting pretty excited by this point. Sliandra had her back to
the camera; she had somehow managed to get her lithe body between his tied
hind legs and was rubbing her body against his turgid cock whilst clawing at
his chest.
"This is the best bit." Sliandra said, her voice betrayed her mounting
lust. With a swift movement she sank her foreclaws into his chest. The
Corenian gave what I imagine to have been a bellow of pain, or was it
pleasure, and snapped his bonds, flinging Sliandra from him. She landed in a
catlike crouch before him and he pounced upon her, covering her and thrusting
deep, his rampant cock impaling her from behind, driving her forward. She
pushed back to meet his impaler as he trust again, his cock burying itself
deep within her body.
"Oooh!" came a whistle from below, "Pretty, Pretty, Pretty," the whistling
voice continued in its squeaky english. "Pretty Leopard!, Pretty.." the
following whistle-cackle was the delphine word which meant essentially,
"peculiar form of surface life".
Sliandra faded the image out.
"Back at last my watery friend, a happy time ashore."
"Met my sister and her friends and a nice lizardman who's going to Dralasa
with us."
Sliandra and I looked at each other and shrugged, the green mating fire now
fading from the corners of her eyes.
"Those dweebs stay in that hold for the rest of this trip and at the first
sign of trouble I blow the hatches and they can float into their next battle,"
Sliandra growled, "Lets go."
We cast off, nosed Cath out of the berth and headed for the stars.
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