Through the Kisandra Prism (25 page)

‘Look Lieutenant,’ exclaims captain Daak, the Cold-blood, ‘the Tarrus Tarm mountains and to the right the slimy swamps. The preferred haunt of the spotted Symator tiger.’

‘I have yet to see one sir,’ answers the young Lieutenant.

‘You will lieutenant – lying dead at my feet. When you are promoted you will have to hunt this cat alone – using an old fashioned laser with only one charge – one chance of killing the most ferocious and intelligent big cat in the entire Antares Cluster.

‘It’s a shame the spotted Symator will soon become extinct sir,’ complains Simma, captain Daak’s old and faithful Na Idriss retainer.

‘You are a sentimental old fool Simma,’ says captain Daak. ‘We Cold-bloods kill – not conserve species. Have you not heard the saying: “Grass never grows in the foot print of a Malis Afar”?’

‘Yes sir,’ answers Simma wearily, ‘but it is still a shame.’

The Malis Afar smiles a thin smile.

‘The Symator… lieutenant, is held in high esteem by our Na Idriss – it is their nearest living relative, hence the misplaced sentiment. Now…’ continues Captain Daak, ‘when we locate the Symator, I will go forward. I do not want assistance. If I miss with the laser, I will use my sword – the way of a warrior. And by the way, lieutenant Malak… the Symator is partial to the flesh of us Cold-bloods – it even favors the flesh of their near relatives – the Na-Idriss.’

Both Cold-bloods laugh; Simma the Na Idriss, carrying the picnic hamper was not amused.

The hunting party now came into Blodwyn’s view, filling her with trepidation. She knew the Na Idriss were eaters of raw meat, tender, hairless, thin-skinned Terasils were highly prized; they were looking forward to their masters conquering Tarrea-two. These were the last aliens she had wished to meet; would they remember she had tricked them once on whilst on Quilla Prime?

She crouched besides the chariot. The aliens were only fifty feet below, within ear shot.

‘Captain Daak, I have picked up Symator tracks,’ announces a scout. The captain begins examining the large pug marks of the cat.

‘We are in luck lieutenant Malak …a fine specimen.’

‘Captain,’ continues the scout, ‘look… fresh footprints of a female Terasil.’

‘Rubbish Mensa – that is wishful thinking.’

The Cold-blood looks for himself,

‘what is a female Terasil doing in the Andromeda galaxy?’

‘After you have killed the Symator sir,’ says the scout Mensa, ‘can we hunt the Terasil?…I have not tasted Terasil flesh for a long while…the females are so tender.’

‘Patience Mensa, when we reclaim Tarrea-two you can have as many Terasil females as you wish – when you tire of them, invite your friends to dinner.’

‘Sir are we still planning to conquer Tarrea-two, given the defeat of our battle fleet by the Galla Qualls?’ asks lieutenant Malak.

‘We can replace our battleships and crew – the Galla Qualls are nearly extinct – only about three dozen remain. The Ida Jaade are useless without the Galla Qualls.’

‘What if the Alter Dom returns or that immensely powerful strange being that drained the power from our whole war fleet? Without that delay we could have destroyed Quilla Prime.’

‘According to our mother (Queen Ra) The Admiral of the fleet was a suppositious coward. When we wipe out the Qualls – then conquer Tarrea-two, you lieutenant, will then have your pick of Terasil females.’

‘Sir,’ asks the lieutenant,’ is it true Terasil females need to eat three times a day, have hairy legs and need at least eight earth hours sleep every night?’

‘I am afraid so,’ answers captain Daak, ‘they also paint their faces, have terrible wind because they eat vegetable matter, never stop talking, some even grow whiskers… they also have the tendency to answer back.’

‘Is it also true that on Tarrea-two there are spiders the size of my hands, flying insects that carry deadly diseases, leaches that suck blood and vast areas covered in freezing ice?’

‘Yes lieutenant,’ answers captain Daak, becoming impatient.

‘Then why don’t we let the Terasils keep Tarrea-two?’ says the lieutenant.

‘Simply because lieutenant, Terasil females share enough of our chromosomes to produce hybrid warriors. Now lieutenant, if you have no more questions… can we continue the Symator hunt?’

‘From what you say about female Terasils captain,’ continues the young lieutenant, ‘I think I will remain a bachelor!

Blodwyn – who is listening from above, thinks to herself: “Bloody cheek, we Terasil females are also ladylike and have good manners in public…and are hard working too.” This conversation also meant the Cold-bloods still intended to invade Earth – it was still vital to find the Alter Dom. It was possible that the Cold-bloods might still claim Earth was theirs by right: they had after all evolved on that planet well before humans! Many of the aggressive Advanced Alien races would agree.

To the hunting party’s left and on higher ground behind a tall rock, un-blinking yellow eyes watch the hunters below.

The Symator was aware that it was the Cold-blood’s quarry and that they had picked up its scent trail. These large intelligent cats hated the Cold-bloods and the Na Idriss even though the later were their close relatives; like a gorilla hating man for similar reasons. The Malis Afar had hunted his tribe for thousands of years and the Symator was now few in number. On the last Malis Afar hunt they had killed his mate who was then in milk; now it was alone. The spotted Symator watches the hunting party; thin, dark lips pulled back in silent snarl: for the moment, the cat that walked on two legs forgot the strange pale humanoid with red hair that had climbed the hill.

Below, the Malis Afar hunting party reaches the head of a valley and gazes up at the very steep towering granite masts flanking it. The Na Idriss tracker on all fours stops and holds up his hand.

‘Captain…. Fresh scent….a Symator has just passed this way….it must have spotted, or heard us as we rounded the corner. It has taken cover above us… behind that large bolder Sir.’

‘Always reach the right fighting temperature lieutenant Malak,’ advises Captain Daak, discarding his tunic.

Blodwyn watched as the Cold-blood’s pale muscular body became striped with dark green bands to help absorb the heat of the sun. She could see the ripple of small scales under his pale skin.

While the rest of the hunting party waited, captain Daak – now having reached the correct fighting temperature, removes his tunic and moves forward, silently to do battle with the Symator.

Three thousand feet above this scene, hanging by their hind legs on the tall, dark granite masts of Tarus Tarm are a large group of naked, Bat-winged Yarbies; the sun’s warming rays had just reached these bold scavengers and warmed their leathery bodies. Their pale opaque eyes fixed on the hunting party below. It was the Yarbies’ mating season. Unlike most species it was the bigger, stronger females that preformed the mating act. The smaller, weak, runt-like male Yarbies did not look forward to the mating season; for the testosterone driven She-males were extremely rough and vicious partners!

Three of largest she-male Yarbies detach themselves from their rocky roosts, swooping down with loud shrilling cries to ascertain the armed strength and physical condition of the group of Malis Afar and Na Idriss below. Looking up, Blodwyn thanked her lucky stars the Yarbies must have been asleep earlier and had not spotted her.

Shrill and piercing shrieks shatter the hot alien afternoon. Captain Daak, mid-stalk, looks up and hisses his annoyance, showing a double row of sharp teeth.

‘Bal-a-docks!’ swears the Cold-blood, ‘Bat-winged Yarbies have spoiled my stalk….damabug!’

‘Shall I signal the ship to use proton cannon Sir?’ asks lieutenant Malak.

‘No,’ answers Daak, ‘let us have sport of a different nature – my immediate stalk having been jeopardized.’

The three She-male Yarbies flap above the heads of the hunting party, shrieking and making demands; for that is the nature of the Bat-winged creatures. The fact that the group contained two of the most aggressive, armed and feared members of the Advanced Races was of little consequence to the single-minded, testosterone drunk females – always extra bold at this time of year. Bat-winged Yarbies were never known for their tact.

Seeing the diversion caused by the Bat-winged Yarbies below, the watching spotted Symator slunk away; the big cat had not forgotten the strange female with red hair: it had not eaten red meat for a whole week!

“If you don’t demand aggressively – you don’t receive” was the motto of the matriarchic Yarbies.

‘Give us your meat and drink, Cold-bloods. Give us your weapons and clothes,’ demands the biggest She-male Yarbie, without a single qualm.

Captain Daak smiles a cold-blooded, thin smile and whispers to lieutenant Malak,

‘The unrealistic demands of She-male Yarbies never cease to amaze me. One has to admire their Bol-a-docks.

The Malis Afar captain looks up.

‘Do I presume you also demand my treasured blade?’

‘Yes – yes your blade,’ scream all the Yarbies.

‘Your compelling negotiating skills, charm, personality and diplomacy leave me no option,’ says captain Daak.

‘Yes – we want everything – everything!’ Scream the She-male Yarbies.

‘Why do you demand our clothes…are Yarbies becoming fashion conscious?’ asks the Cold-blood.

‘Our useless males will have fat bellies soon – they need to nest-build before they lay eggs – clothes make good nests – fool.’ The She-males cry out in unison.

‘Gentlemen,’ announces captain Daak, ‘I am left with no option but to comply with their demands.’

The Cold-blood turns to his servant the Na Idriss Simma,

‘Place the picnic hamper down… there’s a good chap Simma.’

‘But Sir, our fresh meat and Tarish is in there…I am hungry.’ (Tarish is the favorite drink of the carnivorous, Feline Na Idriss, consisting of congealed blood with an alcoholic anti-coagulant).

‘Simma, you have been my faithful servant for a hundred Malis years (ten thousand Earth years)…but do not try my patience…all you ever think of is food lately.’

Mumbling, Simma reluctantly places the food hamper on the ground. ‘Now lieutenant, you heard the Yarbies – place your sword and laser on top.’ Although confused, the lieutenant obeys.

‘Would you be gracious enough to allow us to keep our uniforms ‘till last… in the interests of decency?’ asks captain Daak.

‘Yes! Yes fool – hurry!’ scream the three She-male Yarbies.

‘Now my fine Samurai sword,’ says captain Daak, holding his prized weapon across his open palms. The Tellium blade dazzles in the hot alien sunlight.

The Yarbies first try out the modern laser, snatching the powerful weapon from each other. But a Yarbies clawed hands are made for clinging to high cliff faces, snatching booty and tearing carrion, not operating sophisticated weaponry.

‘Shivering-tits – damn-a-twittering tit!’ swear the Yarbies at their every failed attempt to shoot each other with the laser. Finally the laser is thrown to the ground in disgust.

‘Pis-e-rocs – rub-ish-tits!’ scream the Yarbies – your weapons are useless rub-ish-tits.’

‘Now my fine Samurai sword,’ says captain Daak proudly, holding his prized weapon across his open palms and offering up to the three She-males. ‘Made by a master craftsman from the cherry blossom Islands of Nippon,’ he boasts.

The three Yarbies immediately begin to squabble among themselves as to who will acquire the fine sword; the Cold-blood’s most treasured possession. The dominant She-male of the biting and scratching Yarbies tries to reach the sword but cannot, whilst still in flight. The Yarbie is forced to land. It walks awkwardly towards the Cold-blood; bat-wings outstretched ready for instant flight; its clawed hand cautiously stretches out.

The Yarbie grabs for the fine sword which is snatched away with incredible speed by captain Daak – who grabs the Yarbie with his other hand. Than with the flat of his blade he knocks the Yarbie to the ground and places a shinny boot on the struggling creature’s bat-wing as it tries to take flight. All of the hunting party hold their noses at the stink of the bat-wings’ stench of foul urea.

‘Flab-e-tits! Droopy-tited Liar! Shivering-tits - Damabug! You promised everything.’ screeches the defiant, pinned down, She-male Yarbie.’

‘Captain Daak smiles, a thin cold smile,

‘It is clear your species is not as yet familiar with sarcasm.’ Hisses the Cold-blood. The Na Idriss Simma quickly repossesses the picnic hamper and the Malis Afar lieutenant retrieves his laser and sword.

‘Cold-bloods,’ informs captain Daak, ‘not only have cold blood but also a cold heart – we do not give - we take.’

‘Then take this, sodd-a-bugg!’ screeches the bat-wing as it bites through the Cold-blood’s black, shiny leather boot. The Malis Afar grimaces, but remains silent; pinning the Yarbie’s neck down with his other boot.

‘Now I am curious… why do Yarbies allow those spineless jelly-fish, the Galla Qualls, to visit Tarsaeus Megnas to mine crystals of x-nine without hindrance, irrational demands etc… and dare I venture… without using foul language?’

‘Fool,’ answers the still struggling Yarbie, ‘it is the wish of our Mistresses.’

‘You Vermin take orders? – do tell.’ says Captain Daak.

‘Ora-Pellas fool,’ answers the struggling Yarbie, ‘they in turn answer to a beautiful Mar-Lissa – who lives in the nearby Dolpus Nebular.’

‘And who does this beautiful Mar-Lissa take commands from?’ asks the Cold-blood.

‘The Alter Dom idiot – don’t you know anything,’ screeches the She-male Yarbie.

‘I see,’ answers the Cold-blood, ‘big fleas have little fleas etc…etc. I have yet to see one of these so called ‘higher beings’ – perhaps they are just a fallacy – made up by primitives who need to worship something.’

‘Then visit the Third Quadrent, dimm-tited-twwit – the two Ora-Pella’s that dwell in the Canares Nebular will teach you respect – fool!’

‘Imbecile! Nothing can live in a Nebular – and don’t call me fool again you foul mouthed droopy-tited, navel inspecter,’ hisses captain Daak.

The infuriated Yarbie shows no fear; it bears its yellow teeth and begins to hurl insults and obscenities at the Malis Afar, who only smiles – until the Yarbie goes a step too far by saying: