Star Kitten (19 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most everyone did anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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