Star Kitten (41 page)

The Admiral’s staff kept
reporting they were getting confused readings from the transponder
signature of the pirate ship. Was it … could it be… the
Unity
? Crew members on
the computer tracking team claimed they were nearly certain this
was the long-lost
Unity
from several years before. The ship that had been
overrun by rioting prisoners on Rijel 12—all the crew reportedly
lost and never heard from again. Rumors of this spread throughout
the ship, and soon thousands of crew members on board knew all
about the Tracking Team’s suspicions.

As the squadron neared Kapteyn-B, they
picked up the trail of the fleeing pirate ship once again after
losing the pirates’ transponder signature for about two hours
earlier that day. The Admiral and his staff merely assumed that the
pirates were trying to land and take on supplies up until then, but
when the pirate ship took off again very quickly; they figured the
pirates had changed their minds and fled before Star Fleet could
catch up to them. Could this swampy forbidding planet actually be
the pirate’s secret base? For an hour, the battleship’s command
deck was all in a frenzy of activity, scanning the planet surface
globally to detect all known and unknown structures like food
processing factories and ship docking stations.

Nope! Everything checked out with Star Fleet
records; and all of the port authorities on the planet reported
back and were confirmed as legitimate docking stations for civilian
merchant craft. No dice, it turned out. Kapteyn-B was certainly not
the home of the pirates. Once again, the Squadron grimly set out on
its original mission to try and track the Pirates through space. It
didn’t take long… the Tracking Team reacquired the pirate ship
fleeing the Kapteyn System, and the Admiral’s crew were right back
in business. Star Fleet squadron then returned its attention to the
previous matter at hand: chasing the mysterious pirate ship back to
its base.

However during the time the squadron first
detected the pirates leaving the orbit of Kapteyn-B, they were
really close to the enemy ship, just a few hundred thousand miles
away or so. This was the lucky break they needed because they were
able to get a really complete hull profile reading for the craft
(basically a computer’s way of reading the hull shape and
identifying aspects of the architecture of the craft as well as its
distinctive electronic impulses). This was much more defining than
a transponder signature which merely enabled the hunter to sniff
the trail of its prey, so to speak.

The Tracking Team swore
this time… it was a match. This was a dead ringer for the
Unity
. Only a
Battleship’s sensors could be this thorough; and the Star Fleet
Admiral believed his own Tracking Team emphatically. He now had all
the proof HE needed to believe it had been pirates from the
overthrown New Australia Planetary Prison all along. Now all he
needed was to get the IPA the proof THEY needed to order an
invasion. He needed to follow this ship all the way back to Rijel
12 (New Australia) and hunt this wolf down to its lair.

Then everyone in the galaxy would believe
the undeniable truth: that the rebel prisoners of Rijel 12 had not
only survived the debacle of their uprising; but were now the very
same space pirates which had been pillaging and terrorizing the
galaxy. The Star Fleet Admiral; who was also a Porkonji, sat back
in his command chair and issued the command, “Lock on target.
Steady as she goes, Mr. Helmsman.”

Then he smiled hungrily and snarled, “Run
away little chicken… run, run away….”

Of course, everyone back
on New Australia knew absolutely
nothing
about what was going on with
the
Anarchy
.
However the
Warthog
did finally return and offload hundreds of quite well-rested
and beautifully tanned females as well as some spectacular
glistening bronzed boys. What a sight that was!

Vlad the Impaler brought
back Phillip his young boy-toy and proceeded to distribute all the
captured females to different tribes. Pumalar Marines from
the
Warthog
also
kept some of the males for themselves as concubines; but no one
even lifted an eyebrow at that. Not even when other mainly Pumalar
tribes actually traded goods in exchange for a few captured
human
males
to
join their own tribes! Who could blame them? Frankly, they really
looked tempting to some of the hardened warriors of New Australia.
Muscled, tanned bodies, tough manly frames that could bear up to
the strength and force of a Pumalar male… and honestly the human
males seemed nearly just as delighted as the Pumalars who traded
for them.

But alas the female humans looked even
better—to most everyone else at least. And General Vlad got even
more famous in the process, because the females were lovely and
well-experienced at servicing different species of a wide varied
clientele back on Star Pussy. No training of any kind was necessary
for such professionals. These were females who were quite
accustomed to handling multiple partners every night; and
throughout the night. Bringing back such lovely additions to the
New Australian population most definitely raised his stock and
popularity amongst the other chieftains, no doubt about it. Plus
this was a man who was clearly politicking for command of the
entire New Australian Army—should it ever need to be mobilized
again.

At the distribution market
located in the middle of the Tribal Confederation assembly arena,
the different tribal chieftains lined up for their customary
allotment of new slaves, taking turns (albeit not so patiently at
times) to receive their share of the plunder from the
Warthog
. It was a
comical scene, even if it was at times also a bit chaotic. But Vlad
just sat back and soaked it all in. His victorious Arian Knights
brigade had increased their already growing legend as a fighting
force; and everyone had been thrilled at their homecoming. Yet now
they had topped everything by returning with such beautiful females
like most other Nausties had never—or rarely—seen in their entire
lives.

Vlad got all the credit; and for that matter
why not? His brigade had faced a similar challenge in the Earth
Environ against strong opposition. They’d faced almost the same
troops as the Smilodons did… yet returned with only a handful of
casualties. And the dead? They had all been buried back on Frabrak
3. Of course half of them were Zorgs, but few recognized the
oddness of that. Battles lead to casualties; soldiers get killed.
Everyone accepted that as fact. But still, how could so many Zorgs
(mostly crewmen) have died in a firefight? At this point, Vlad was
above reproach, and when Captain Razorback gave his report to
Solomon Mwanga, the Terminal Chief, that’s when the truth finally
came out.

Razorback reported that in reality, almost
all the Zorgs had just gone AWOL, fled the ship and melted into the
jungle, never to be seen again. Likely, those giant birds ate them
all and absolutely nothing could be done for them. Hunting parties
couldn’t find more than a few survivors and those poor bastards
were so chopped up they didn’t live more than a day or two. Solomon
agreed with Razorback, just to let it go. No use blaming anyone.
The Zorgs had been derelict of duty, ran off into the jungle for
weeks, disappeared without any word and well, there wasn’t anything
left of them to bury in most cases.

Besides, why start a
controversy now? What good would that do? Just look at what they’d
brought back! The
Warthog
even saved a case of Scotch for Solomon and had
packed a massive onboard walk-in freezer with assorted sea
creatures caught from Frabrak 3.
Solomon
graciously accepted the Scotch but later traded a couple bottles of
it for some tasty exotic fish… for his new companion
Felina!

Yes, the scene in the Tribal Confederation
assembly was quite a sight to see. Tanned, beautiful, quite
well-rested women from Star Pussy posed and looked about at the
quite battle-hardened warrior chieftains of New Australia, along
with their bodyguards. Naturally some cowered in fear or shook with
anxiety. But many winked and flirted; having found out already just
how much more fun it was to be in the care and company of burly
pirates than wimpy pasty middle-aged wealthy merchants and
businessmen from across the galaxy. Most had discarded their
costumes from Star Pussy and fashioned mere loin cloths to wear out
on the beach back on Frabrak 3. Now they stood proudly and
bare-breasted before the snarling murmuring throng of lusting
warriors and miners.

The ones with good attitudes had the right
idea. Getting selected by one of the wealthier stronger tribal
chieftains meant a relatively comfortable life for them. Pleasing
and satisfying that chieftain also meant a safe existence and
preferential treatment. Failing to accomplish either one of these
things could very well mean being discarded or passed down to one
of the lowly Spleef tribes; and few human females lived very long
in their caves.

Solomon watched the event in the Tribal
Confederation Assembly after meeting with and debriefing both
Captain Razorback and General Vlad. They both told him similar
stories about their exit from Star Pussy, and their decision to
avoid Star Fleet by hiding out on Frabrak 3. Solomon was satisfied
with their decision… couldn’t blame them a bit for wanting to avoid
a headlong race back to New Australia with the potential of being
chased by a Star Fleet Patrol ship and giving away the location of
their pirate base. That would have been a disaster! Solomon
accepted their explanations and their logic.

However, neither of them
had anything like a working theory—or even the foggiest idea—what
might have happened to Admiral Snout and the
Anarchy
.

Even when half a year had
passed and there’d never been any sign of the
Anarchy
… no one heard anything about
it on or even off the planet. Not even a blip or a peep about it.
Not on inter-space communications, not even on the IPN News
broadcasts; which Naustie trade ship Captains could pick up in
route to Porkonji. The shocking story about the attack on Star
Pussy had even faded from the news over time. It just seemed like
the Interplanetary Authority was sweeping the whole thing under the
rug; once again. Something must have happened, but the news was
either not reporting it or was not yet aware of the
outcome.

Sensing that the whole
thing had blown over—regardless of what had really happened to
the
Anarchy
—the
Tribal Confederation gave permission for Solomon to finally send
out clandestine missions to establish trade relations. Trust was
tentative at best for a while; but sure enough, within a few months
of negotiating and reconnecting with old sources, trade had been
established between a few Porkonji black market ports; and even
with the occasional Zorg freighters who found they could take on
mineral deposits, gemstones, and giant raw crystals from Naustie
ships for a mere shipload of fresh fruit and vegetables or dried
meats and frozen fish. All trade was done via bartering; and it
maintained a safe balance between peaceful trade
and the necessary discretion
to keep New Australia supplied with food while not drawing
too much attention.

Kscheeech spear-headed the trade missions
now, having spent the past few years flying with Snout as well as
acquiring a newly-updated knowledge of the galaxy’s not so
legitimate trading centers. Many were the same old ports he’d
visited as a pirate years before; and some were new.

But all these were indeed
legitimate ports,
technically
under the jurisdiction of the Porkonji and
Zorgolongian governments. Some were colonial ports too; which could
maintain black market trade far from the watchful eye of their
planetary governments. Naustie ships just had to move in fast, do
their business, and then scamper off. Captains only had to
know
who
they
could really trade with at those ports. That’s all. But it wasn’t
difficult to find traders who didn’t ask too many questions about
the origins of goods. Not when the price was outstanding. Naustie
ships started hauling out tons and tons of mineral ore and crystals
once again; and the old mines of New Australia retooled and
resupplied labor to do the work necessary to get ore and gem-laden
rock up to the planetary surface crushing plant.

Slarts even went along with trade missions
and aided in the negotiations. They turned out to be very wise and
shrewd businessmen that black market traders could really work well
with. Incapable of lying; direct and to the point, Slarts quickly
identified a barter level that was comfortable for all; and the
traders loved working with them. Very little haggling. Never any
drama to it. The Slarts merely stated how much minerals or gems
they had to trade, and how much food or supplies they needed.
Porkos and Zorgs flew the crafts. Pumalar Marines stayed hidden on
board in case of any attempt by port authorities to seize the
vessels, if it ever came to that. But Slarts gradually did most all
of the trade negotiations.

And in the six months since the return of
the ships from the Star Pussy raid, not only was the new service
terminal garage completed, but construction was begun on the first
of the massive five square mile solar domed farms. Construction
materials were (mostly) easy to come by; and the more
industrialized colonies on Frabrak 3 were perfect for finding them
in large quantities. Wood panels, fabricated building sections,
steel beams, all could be purchased there. Frabrak 3 was booming;
and construction there had been chugging along feverishly for
several years. Mostly it was prefabricated modular housing and
partially constructed building components that could be connected
and “zipped up” once placed together on a site. But the best thing
about Frabrak 3 was the great supply of building equipment,
machinery, and vehicles for digging out a foundation and pouring
concrete to set support beams. Everything came factory-direct from
Porkonji or from Earth colonies. Food was plentiful to trade for
too.