Hooray For Our Talkeetna
Steam rose.
Bubble-bubble-boil.
"You don't like turnips, doctor?"
"Well, uh ... I, uh ... " A slight sniff. And, clacking her beak a bit, the black-and-white warbler replied, "Not especially, no." She absently smoothed her feathers.
Stars streamed by, silently, outside the windows. Yellowknife was sailing through space, on border patrol.
"Turnips," Graham assured, stirring the contents of the silvery, boiling pot with a sturdy, wooden spoon, "are a VERY misunderstood vegetable." Eye-smiling, the snow rabbit captain looked to Aspera. Stirred, stirred, and withdrew the spoon from the pot, emphasizing, "VERY misunderstood."
"Well ... " The warbler hesitated. Wrinkling her features, feathers slightly ruffling, watching the snow turnips bob and boil in the bubbling water on the stove. They were all in the mess hall, for a private dinner. The captain and his senior officers, their mates. And a few others. A meal to bond over. It had been a month since the small crew of Reverie had merged with the snow rabbit crew here on Yellowknife. A months since the crash. The rescue. And everyone had finally adjusted to the situation. For the most part.
The snow rabbit raised his brow, in that logical, patient way. Waiting for a further response. Waiting. His whiskers gave a singular twitch.
The bird sighed. Finally (feebly) assuring, relenting, "I, uh ... I look forward to understanding them better." It came out as a mumble.
An eye-smile, and a polite tilt of the head. "I am pleased to hear it," he replied.
"You teasing my wife?" Taylor asked. The chipmunk filtered into the scene, chew-chewing on something. Some kind of nut. Chew-chew. "Mm?" He looked from Aspera to Graham, smiling. "Or is it the other way around? She can be a paw-ful, sometimes ... " His brushy tail, with the bold, brown stripes, gave a few flickers, rustling through the environmentally-perfect air.
" ... Taylor," was all Aspera said, rolling her glistening black eyes a bit.
"I was simply introducing her to snow turnips," the captain explained. "As I will be introducing you, as well, to ... "
" ... snow turnips," the chipmunk went. And he nodded, nodded, swallowing. "I like turnips," he assured. "You'll have no problem getting me to eat 'em."
"She does not like them," Graham said, nodding at the bird.
"I said I would try them," Aspera insisted, with a twitter-chirp. Her tail-feathers wagged up and down.
"It is not a matter of trying them," Graham said. "It is a matter of liking them."
"So, what? I, uh ... you're ordering me to like snow turnips?"
A cheeky eye-smile. "If I must."
Ada, eye-smiling herself, drifted into the conversation. Moving like a snowflake. With crystalline delicacy. "You must forgive my husband. He can be ... trying," she said, "at times." The communications officer took a small sip of her drink. A bluish, creamy, mint-flavored beverage. Alcohol in a clear, reflective goblet. "Can't you, darling?" She raised her brow, looking to Graham.
"I know all about 'trying'," Aspera assured, nodding (but not elaborating).
Graham, though, didn't hear the bird. For he was turning his full attention to Ada, soon eye-smiling, pressing his nose to hers. Nose-nuzzling softly, tenderly. So that their whiskers brushed. So that, when he whispered, "I have been searching for you," she got delightfully warm shivers. Shivers that run up to her ear-tips, making her slender, white antenna ears to waggle. Waggle-waggle. "I have been," he continued, still at a warm (though restrained, in that snow rabbit way) whisper.
Ada closed her eyes, letting out a soft sigh. "I have been circulating," she replied, eyes opening. Meeting his own. Both of them with ice-blue eyes. Cool. Deep. Like pools of quenching water.
"Circulating ... " The captain put his wooden stirring spoon down, on the counter. Here in the open-windowed kitchen (which looked out into the mess hall). He put his paws, then, on her sides. The fabric of her soft dress. The softer, holy-white fur beneath.
"As you can see," she whispered, her lips on his cheek. "As you can see ... I have circulated all the way to you."
"Indeed," he whispered, "you have. For which I am glad." He pulled his head back, just a bit, eye-smiling. His whiskers gave a singular twitch. Nose giving a sniff.
"You are cooking snow turnips," she whispered.
"Boiling," he corrected, "snow turnips."
"Boiling." A head-tilt. "The crew is looking forward to your meal. They are telling themselves ... how lucky they are," she teased, "to be stuck with a cook for a captain. Among other things."
"Among other things?" A raised brow.
"I am not the type," she said, "to eavesdrop and tell. I would not be a good comm officer, otherwise."
"But you do eavesdrop."
"Do I?" A cheeky eye-smile. Her truer emotions hidden behind that frozen veil. Beneath her surface. Unable to get out.
Graham turned his head to get opinions from Aspera and Taylor, and blinked, realizing, "They've gone."
"You scared them away. You and your snow turnips."
"Snow turnips are a ... "
" ... very misunderstood vegetable," Ada whispered. "I know." A calm, playful eye-smile. That happy gleaming of the eyes that only snow-furs could master. That enigmatic radiance.
Graham closed his eyes, listening to the bubble-bubble-boil of the vegetables, and listening to the squeaks and chatters coming from the crew-furs in the mess hall, leaning his head against Ada's. "Do you think," he whispered to her, in a soft, slightly-tired way, "this is working?"
"The two crews?"
"Yes."
"It seems to be. If it is not, then ... give it more time," she suggested.
A slight nod, and he pulled his head back. Opening his eyes. "Would you check the bread for me? In the first oven?"
A head-tilt, and a nod. And she reluctantly slid away from his warmth. His scent. From him. Knowing that, sooner or later, the gravity of their love would pull them back together. Paws-to-fur. Belly-to-belly. Those 'come again' kisses, preludes to God-designed union. To that which was blessed. To beautiful, soulful rest. She thought of all these things as she checked the baking bread, which was giving off an extra-tasty aroma.
"I have come to discover," Graham said absently, checking on some of the other vegetables. As well as the rotini pasta. The twisted pasta. And the red tomato sauce that went with it. "I have come to discover," he repeated, very quietly, voice almost drowned out by the bubbling and boiling, "that I am not the captain that ... furs want me to be."
"How so?" Ada turned, done checking the bread. It only needed a few more minutes. Her bobtail flickered.
"I am not a 'typical' snow rabbit."
"Nor am I. Nor are many others ... typically, there is no such thing," she told him, "as typical. It is what you make of it."
"Of that," he replied, softly, "I am aware." A pause. "I simply worry about ... having my crew's support. Am I forceful enough? Am I too friendly," he asked, "with them? Can a captain be both a friend ... and a commanding officer?"
"It would be a miserable ship," she suggested, "otherwise."
"I sense that tougher times are coming."
"We have been through tough times," she reminded. Padding toward him. Her paws, now, on his sides (as his, earlier, had been on hers). Referring to the not-so-distant wars. Between the Arctic foxes and the wasps. The snow rabbit had prevailed in both conflicts. But at a price. Oh, but at a heavy internal price. "We have been," she assured, "and drawing from that ... we are better-equipped to deal with future storms. Are we not? Is not the Lord our safe harbor? Is He not valiant?"
"We are better-equipped. And He is," Graham confessed, "valiant. However, I was not a captain during those ... times," he whispered, trailing. "During the wars." A pause. "Though perhaps that was for the better. I am still so young ... " A troubled face. He cleared his throat, ice-blue eyes darting. And he met her eyes, asking, with a small sigh, "When the world comes crashing down, am I the right fur to be in this position? I do not doubt our Savior. I doubt myself." A breath. "Am I a good captain?"
"You know my answer to that question."
"I do."
"Then why ask?"
"Because I do not know," he confessed, "the answer."
"Assuredly, you do," Ada whispered, putting her nose on his neck. Closing her eyes. She whispered, "You are a kind, caring captain ... with energy to spare. Full of life. Full of hope." A pause. "Give your burdens to Him. As I know you've done ... give them. Trust Him, as you trust me. As you trust your crew. And, being that your faith has saved you ... " She took a breath and drew back, opening her eyes. " ... there is no need for worry."
A slight nod. "I just believe that the crew would more readily follow a more traditional snow rabbit. Or even ... " He trailed.
" ... Talkeetna?"
"They all like her."
"She is a different kind of captain. And, at the moment, not a captain at all. But your first officer." A reassuring eye-smile. "She supports you. I know as much. And I know, as well, that all styles of command are not the same ... I simply," she confessed, the eye-smile fading. Replaced with a look of concern. " ... do not know the cause for this sudden ... fear? Darling, I assure you, you ARE a good ... "
"I sense," he repeated, gently interrupting, his voice more grave than it had been the first time, "that tougher times are coming."
Ada met his eyes. "If that is, indeed, the case ... " Her fingers meshed with his, and she gave his paw a squeeze. " ... we will face those 'tougher times'," she assured, "together." A tilt of her head. "A cliche, I know. But, nevertheless, the truth."
Graham had to eye-smile at that. And desperately wanted to lean forward, to move in for a kiss. To have his lips meet hers in an older-than-time gesture. Older than languages. Older than art, indeed, was the pressing of male and femme lips.
But she, with such self-controlled, veiled cheek, replied, "We mustn't burn the food. It loses all use ... when heated too long. Kisses? Can smolder for quite some time." She drew back, padding to the oven. And her bobtail flicker-flicked like a flame. As she added, "We shall play with that fire later."
The captain smiled to himself, letting out a deep sigh. Something to look forward to, indeed. Oh, something to absolutely crave. Oh, yes, the golden, melting flames of love set wildly ablaze.
Out in the mess hall, with a drink in her paw, Talkeetna let out a small sigh. Looking at the stars. They were pretty. The stars were always pretty. She needed to spend more time noticing them. And less time taking for granted that they were there. One of these days, they were all going to fall out of the heavens. One of these days. And, then, she looked at the carpet. And, finally, turned her head. Eyes meeting Antioch's. "I said I was fine," she insisted, answering his question from a minute ago. Her reply delayed.
"You just seem restless, is all." His roundish ears made slight movements. His silvery-grey and reddish-brown fur looked distinctly handsome in this light (or, indeed, in any light, Talkeetna thought to herself).
"I'm a rodent," was Talkeetna's eventual, audible continuation.
"As am I ... so, don't think I can't read your body language," he told her, with a tender, quiet concern. "Why do you always use that 'rodent' argument with me, darling? I AM a marmot ... I'm even part of the Sciuridae family ... "
" ... I don't forget," was her smiling, insisting response, "that you're a rodent. Or a marmot. I get my daily doses of rodent-marmot."
"And?" A patient, slightly-amused smile.
"And I don't forget," was all she said, repeating it. At a whisper. She put her lips to her glass. And took a sip. A sip. And, sighing, she pulled the glass away. Smacking her lips, she said, "It's just a bit difficult. To not be in control. To not say ... where we're going, what we're doing." Pause. "I've already told you all this ... "
"But have you told it to Graham?"
A hesitation. "He knows." A pause, and she twitched a bit. Her whiskers twitched, and her tail started to flag. "He's in charge. He's my captain. I'm ... a sub-commander," the red squirrel said, putting her glass back to her lips.
"They say that 'sub-commander' if a very ... yiffy," he remarked, "title. I have to agree with that sentiment." He eyed her, with a sparking tenderness. A desire for her that stemmed from their shared lives. And their shared Christian faith. Their desire for union, yes. And, within that union, a spiritual purity. Lust tamed. Love gained. That sort of thing.
A giggle-squeak, taking yet another sip of her drink. And not responding directly to that comment. Instead, smiling slightly, she remarked, "You had any of this?"
"Mint stuff, isn't it?"
"Like drinking alcoholic peppermint ... just as sweet. Reminds me of that pink peppermint ice cream. The kind they always had back home, around Christmas. With the green and red bits in it." A pause. "Except this drink is blue, and it has no bits ... " She sloshed the liquid in the glass. "Reminds me of something I once, uh ... on campus, back at the academy. That illegal drink, you know? Romulan ale?"
"Was never introduced to that one ... "
"Not that I drank ... before I was legal," she added. Telling the truth.
"But ... just as affective, I take it? As any underground ale? As alcoholic peppermint?"
"Oh, the ice cream wasn't alcoholic ... "
"I know that, darling. You're tipsy," the marmot accused, with a definite sense of play. "I mean, it's just as affective as drinking alcoholic peppermint?"
"Something like that," was Talkeetna's response, which was slightly distracted. Slightly dazed. "I'm sure I'll find that out," she added, smiling. "What are we talking about again? I, uh ... kinda confused."
"That makes two of us," the marmot added, honestly, scratching his head-fur a bit.
And she sighed a bit, eyes looking around. She saw some of her own crew-furs. And saw several snow rabbits. "Snow rabbits have a ... certain scent about them. You notice that?"
"All rabbits do. It's that, uh ... virile scent."
"No, but it's different with them. With snow rabbits, it's different than it is ... with regular rabbits." A sip of her drink. And several sniffs of the air, whiskers twitch-twitching. Sniff. "Mm." A sigh, and yet another sip. "Mm." A swallow, and licking her lips, she continued, "Well, I don't know. Just something I've noticed. It's not unpleasant ... I rather like it," she whispered. "Reminds me of, uh ... I don't know. Pine?"
A giggle-squeak from Antioch. "Pine?"
"Well, something ... you know, something wintery. Something crisp. They have a crisp scent ... they DO smell like logic. If logic, uh ... well, if it has a smell ... "
The marmot just smiled, nodded, and slipped an arm around his wife, putting his nose to her neck. And exhaling there. Letting his warm breath wash into her auburn-colored fur, which was always appealing. Always shining, her pelt. She took such good care of it. Grooming it so obsessively. Especially that bushy, arching tail of hers. A squirrel's pride. Like every good squirrel, she spent an hour a day just grooming her fur. The tail getting the bulk of that attention.
A slight giggle-squeak, and she wavered on her bare foot-paws a bit. "Heh ... what are you," she whispered, "nosin' me ... you a noser, now? Noser ... "
"I'm not allowed to nose?" He pulled his black nose back, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You're allowed to do," she countered, with dreamy dizziness, "whatever you want ... to me ... " Almost a plea, those words. A whispered, feminine plea. Make me feel real. Show me, darling. Show me. Love me like it's all brand new. Like it's the first time. Oh, please, darling. Please.
A giggle-squeak from him. "Mm." A nod. "Well, what I want to do and ... what is appropriate," he told her, "are two different things."
"Since when?"
"Since we're in public."
"I see." A slight nod. A few blinks. "Mm." And she licked her lips, whiskers twitching. "Well, that's no fair ... "
"You ARE tipsy," he repeated. And a sigh. His arms wrapping around her, now, from behind. And he swayed, slightly. Together, they swayed. "You hide it well, though. At least you're not falling over or ... being ridiculous." A dawning smile. And he kissed the nape of her neck, with such affection. "You do tipsy quite well." And he cleared his throat, adding, "If I had a drink, though, I'd start a toast ... "
" ... well, get a drink ... "
" ... for you."
"I already have a ... "
" ... not a drink. A toast. I'd give a toast," he said, "for you."
"Yeah?" A smile. She closed her eyes. Leaning a bit too much to the right. But he compensated for her leaning, and held her up. Held her in place. Oh, he kept her from falling. Consistently, he was there. Her safety net.
"Mm-hmm. I'd say ... " He snugged closer to her, his darling red squirrel, his arms and paws on her belly. Her tail pinned between her back and his front. He was wearing his standard dress uniform. She was wearing a dress, one that sparkled a bit. And had straps for the shoulders. One that flowed around her bare, furry foot-paws. "You know what I'd say?"
"Mm-mm." A shake of the head. "What ... what'd you ... "
" ... I'd say," he whispered, " ... 'hooray for our Talkeetna'."
The red squirrel closed her eyes. And beamed. A giggle-squeak. Her paw, unsteady as it was, held loosely to her drink glass. The liquid inside sloshed about. "And why," she asked, curious, "would I be getting a 'hooray' ... "
"Because you deserve one. Because," he added, "you are graceful. And patient. And understanding, and ... all sorts of good," the marmot whispered, "things. Because my love for you is such," he assured, "that I wish to celebrate you." A breath. And he whispered, right into one of her angular, cocked ears, "Hooray for our Talkeetna."
"Oh," was her airy, soft exhale. One that shivered through her. Hotly, fiercely. She drew a sharp breath. "Hooray?" she whispered weakly. Her arched, puffy tail twitched a bit. Drooping from her tipsiness.
"Hooray," he repeated, in her ear, "for our Talkeetna."
"'Our?' Am I, uh ... public property?"
"Well, it's 'our Talkeetna,' because ... we're ALL saying hooray. We're all hooraying you. Not just me." A pause, and a smile. "Though I am hooraying you the LOUDEST."
"Aw ... "A continued smile, whiskers twitching. And her eyes gently opening. "That is," she assured him, leaning back against him (in a swooning way), "so, so sweet." A sigh. "Oh, darling, I ... "
Chirrup!
" ... I, uh ... your comm-badge," she said, gently (reluctantly) pulling away from his chest. Slowly turning around (trying to stay balanced).
Chirp-chirrup!
The marmot sighed apologetically, taking a step away from her. Tapping the badge, asking, "Yes?"
"Sir, we've picked up something," came the voice. Seward. One of the snow rabbits on the tactical/security staff, which Antioch now headed (much to Seward's regret; as Seward, himself, had headed that department until the crew of the Reverie had arrived). "I think you should take a look."
"Can it ... "
" ... wait? No. It is," Seward said, as unreadable as he could possibly be, "urgent."
"Alright. I'll, uh ... thanks. I'll be up in a minute." And the channel was cut. And Antioch looked to Talkeetna, giving another apologetic look. He took her free paw and gave it a squeeze. "Uh ... I gotta go check on that." Whatever 'that' is, he thought to himself. If Seward had been reluctant to give details over an open comm line, then it must be worrisome.
"Don't argue with him this time, okay?" Talkeetna asked, feeling slightly dizzy. She cleared her throat and looked for a table to steady herself against.
"With Seward?"
A slight nod. "Bad enough, in his mind, that he gets replaced by a newcomer, a warm-blood fur ... but a Christian one, as well?"
"I'm supposed to apologize for my faith?" A quizzical look.
"Not at all. No," the red squirrel assured, swallowing, looking into her drink. And then looking back to her husband. "Just make him feel ... welcome. Try to, uh, be a light, you know."
"I know how to act, darling," Antioch said simply, making a bit of a face.
"Snow rabbits aren't like us. They aren't like ... how Cordova or Kempton are," Talkeetna continued, referring to the two regular rabbits from Reverie. "As a captain, I had to know psychological profiles of ... "
" ... many species. So did I," he reminded her. "As a tactical officer ... "
"Darling, I'm just saying ... you've not done anything to offend Seward. But you've not done anything to befriend him, either. Other than being his superior. Just ... reach out," she suggested. "I don't wanna have my daily meeting with Graham and, uh ... " In her tipsiness, she trailed. And then blinked, shaking her head, picking back up with, "be told that you and Seward were bristling at each other again ... "
A flush, looking away. Then looking back to her. And he nodded. "Alright. I'll ... try something."
"I didn't mean to bring it up if ... "
" ... no," he whispered, nodding lightly. "You were right to." A step forward, bare foot-paws padding on the carpet. And he put a kiss on her cheek. Softly. Sweetly. Their whiskers brushed. As they always did when they kissed. There was not a lighter, more angelic feeling, was there, than when your whiskers brushed? In that soft, errant way? A side-effect of muzzle-on-muzzle? Antioch then whispered (so that only she could hear), "We'll, uh ... later, yeah?"
"Later," she assured, biting back a playful giggle-squeak. Knowing all too well what was intimated by that gap between his words. And she sighed through her twitch-sniffing nose, watching him go. "Mm," she went, eyes lingering on the doorway even after he'd gone through it. Even after the swishing, sliding doors were shut. And, finally, she turned back to her drink. Taking another sip, which emptied the glass. "I think I'll need another," she told herself.
"Aisling ... "
The snow rabbit turned, raising a brow. Waggling her ears. Like all snow rabbits, her slender ears were white. With pink interiors. With the furred tips looking like they'd been dipped in charcoal-black.
" ... cookie?" Azalea asked.
"No, thank you," she politely responded. "I do not wish to ruin my supper." Her bobtail gave a very proper flicker. For, indeed, she was a very proper snow rabbit.
"A good cookie never ruined anything," the western jumping mouse responded. She winked. And then proceeded to nib-nibble on one. It was star-shaped and cinnamon. There were a few plates of them (not just the star-shaped cinnamon ones) over on one of the tables. And a big bowl of punch, too, with a ladle. And the bottles of alcohol. But the mouse was sticking to some punch. "You know what's in this stuff?"
"The cookies?"
"The punch."
"I believe it is ... " Aisling closed her eyes. Concentrating. Remembering. " ... ginger ale, frozen orange juice concentrate ... sugar and pineapple juice."
A smile. "Tasty ... never had stuff like this before. It's really good."
"It is the captain's recipe."
"You know, I never knew he was so ... "
" ... multi-talented? Yes." A blank pause. "He likes to remind us of that," Aisling commented, "whenever possible."
Azalea looked the snow rabbit over. Wondering if there had been a 'tone' in her voice. It was very hard to tell. Aisling was the ship's chief engineer. "So, uh ... " The mouse nib-nibbled on her cookie, careful not to spill any crumbs on the carpet (which was somewhat impossible to avoid). She sipped at her punch, and then asked, "So ... Konka giving you any trouble?"
"The coyote? No," was the simple response.
Azalea just nodded. "Well, he used to give us trouble. You know, now and then."
"I do not allow 'trouble' on my staff."
"Well, I'm not saying you do. I'm just saying ... "
" ... I have killed predators with my bare paws," was the cold, simple response. "An ill-tempered coyote does not bother me in the least."
A slow swallow. And an even slower head nod. "Um ... okay," Azalea whispered weakly, taking a deep breath. Turning her head and smiling with relief. "Emerson! Come here, come here," she urged, pulling her husband up against her. "Darling, where'd you get off to, then?" A smile, and she put her nose to the field mouse's neck-fur. "Mm?"
"I, uh ... went to use the bathroom."
"Well, don't be disappearing on me. Come on, have some punch. And, uh ... here's a cookie." She handed him one of her cookies. As well as her own glass of punch.
Emerson, a bit flustered, took it all. Blinking several times. His whiskers twitched, and his grain-colored fur, soft to the touch, looked good in the overhead light.
Aisling watched them both. With an analytical, emotionless eye.
Emerson, looking the snow rabbit's way, gave a polite nod. "Hi," he said, in his airy voice. His whiskers twitched.
Aisling just gave a head-tilt in reply, taking a deep breath. Straightening her posture. She, unlike the other femmes in the room, wasn't wearing a dress. She was wearing, rather, her dress uniform. Like the males had done. "I do hope the captain will not be late with dinner. There are duties I wish to attend to."
"Like what?" Emerson asked, curious. His whiskers twitched. All wide-eyed and innocent.
"Duties," was Aisling's response.
"Oh."
The femme snow rabbit, narrowing her eyes, commented, "Look at them."
"Look at who?" Azalea asked, blinking. Her whiskers twitched, her dishy mouse-ears going swivel-swivel.
But all the mousey cuteness of the two mouses was lost on Aisling. Who simply nodded at Kempton and Cordova, stating, "The way they ... fondle each other. The way they whisper into each other's ears."
"Well, uh ... they're in love," Emerson supplied, softly. Simply.
"They are officers," Aisling responded, "in the snow rabbit High Command. They should conduct themselves as such. As should," she added, "we all."
"Well, you're a rabbit," Azalea pointed out. "Just like them. I mean, you, uh ... you get 'rabbity,' right? That's the, uh ... breeding 'advantage' your species has ... "
Aisling gave the western jumping mouse a look.
"She doesn't approve of love," Emerson realized, whiskers twitching. Not meeting the snow rabbit's eyes. Instead, looking into his punch glass (which was really Azalea's punch glass). And he downed the rest of the sweet liquid.
"A correct assessment," was Aisling's response. "I do not approve ... of love," she whispered, narrowing her eyes. "Snow rabbit culture was fine without it."
"That's an awfully ... "
" ... rigid view?" she interrupted, stopping Azalea. "I have heard it all before, lieutenant. Believe me. I know your argument. I know what you will say to me. All about your faith and ... " She trailed, sighing, shaking her head. "If I detected any hint of love in my breeding party ... " She was the head of her breeding party. One of three breeding parties on the ship.
Neither of the mouses quite knew what to say.
"The two of you," Aisling observed, focusing her eyes on them. "The two of you ... are especially 'lovelorn'."
"Doesn't, uh ... doesn't 'lovelorn' mean, uh ... like unhappy love? Unrequited love?" Emerson asked, blinking. Confused. His whiskers twitched. "We're not unhappy. We're HAPPY."
"Yeah," Azalea added, squinting her eyes, and getting far more combative that Emerson (as quiet and polite as he was) would get. "You know? Happiness? You know what that feels like? It's ... "
Aisling sighed, interrupting with, "Very well. You are ... I do not know WHAT you are, but I will tell you this: if you think that, by befriending me, you will soften me or make me happy, or ... teach me the ways of Christian love? You are mistaken. I will NOT be contaminated or converted by your ... your faith," she spat. With that restrained snow rabbit emotion. But, all the same, there was an undeniable force in her words. A frustrated exhale through her black nose. "Where IS the captain ... the meal should've been served by now." A pause, and a shake of the head. "I shall go check on him ... " And, with that, the snow rabbit padded off, her bare foot-paws making firm sounds as she marched over the carpet.
Azalea, meeting Emerson's eyes, blew out a breath, rolling her eyes.
The field mouse just sighed, collecting himself. His whiskers twitched. "Tell me about it," he whispered. Glad that Aisling had gone. She scared him.
"Seward, I, uh ... look, I don't want any hard ... "
" ... you are double-checking my readings. Do you doubt the veracity of my work?" the snow rabbit challenged.
Antioch sighed. "Of course not. Look, it's just standard ... "
" ... it is entirely ... "
" ... procedure."
" ... accurate," the snow rabbit insisted. "The information is legitimate. We should inform the captain."
"No," Antioch said, stopping the snow rabbit from moving off. "No, just ... wait a bit, okay? Wait a few hours?"
"Why?" was Seward's demand.
"Because the captain has spent a lot of energy preparing this meal ... don't ruin it for him."
"The captain is well-versed in 'ruining' things for others. Perhaps I wish to return the ... "
" ... lieutenant, you are speaking of the commanding officer of this vessel. In future, you'll use proper respect. In both tone," the marmot insisted, "and word-choice. Is that understood?"
Seward, flushing beneath his fur, just nodded lightly. "Yes ... sir," he added.
The marmot sighed, blowing out a breath through his muzzle. And standing up straight. "This all checks out."
"As I said it would."
"Just as I said, and just as you KNOW ... that it's standard procedure to triple-check all intelligence reports."
No response from Seward.
"What I don't understand," Antioch said, leaning against the tactical station. He crossed his arms, shaking his head. "Why would they ... I mean, what do they have to gain from it?"
"If you are attempting to look for logic in the Furry Federation's actions ... then I suggest you stop trying." A few taps at the tactical console. Beep-a-beep. "They have a history of 'illogic'." A pause, and he looked over to the marmot. "As do their citizens."
"I'm not longer a Federation citizen. I'm a fugitive."
"So you say."
"And what else would I be?"
A pause. A consideration. And a raised brow. "A spy, perhaps? A plant?"
Antioch chuckled, shaking his head. "That's ... look, think what you want." The mirth faded. "Seward, I didn't ask for this situation to happen. I didn't ask to ... supplant you as tactical officer, okay? I don't see why we can't be friends."
"I am aboard this ship to serve my species. Not to 'make friends'," was the simple, chilly response.
"The very nature of serving," Antioch replied, saying something he'd learned from Talkeetna, "entails being useful ... taking care of the needs of others."
"And?"
"And furs NEED more than ... than whatever it is you think they need," the marmot managed, sighing. He was, truthfully, in no mood to argue. And he doubted he could win a debate with a snow rabbit. A non-Christian snow rabbit, when wishing to berate love, faith, or et cetera, could get downright vicious. "Look," Antioch repeated. "Look, I wanna be friends. I don't want any dissension between us. I just ... if I had to serve under you, I wouldn't be upset."
"This is not your ship," Seward said silently. His eyes ice-cold.
"It is now," Antioch replied, meeting the snow rabbit's gaze. Trying to match it (though that was very hard to do). "You said you're here to ... "
" ... serve my species. You are not a snow rabbit."
"How observant of you," the marmot replied, using Seward's own, standoffish tone. Volleying it back at him. "But I take orders from Captain Graham, who IS a snow rabbit ... and you take orders from me."
A slight head-tilt. And nothing more.
Antioch, blowing out a breath, shook his head. And turned his attention back to the read-outs. The intelligence reports. "According to these," the marmot whispered, "the Federation is telling its citizens ... " A trail, and a shake of his head. He bit his lip. " ... that the leaders of the snow rabbit High Command have been infiltrated and replaced by humans?" A disbelieving sigh. "This is a new low ... "
"And, no doubt, the citizens of the Furry Federation are gullible enough to believe it. They will clamor for war ... "
"They don't want war," Antioch insisted. "Prey never do." A pause. And an addition of, "As a rule." Because that was a blanket statement. And he knew very well that prey could, when pressed, be just as dark and vicious as any predator.
"There are plenty of predators in the Furry Federation," Seward reminded, "to make up for the prey's lack of violence."
"True. We're very tolerant. Very diverse," the marmot shot back.
The snow rabbit squinted. "As are we. You are serving aboard one of OUR ships, are you not?"
"Yes, I am. Unfortunately, I'm having a problem with one of my security officers. He's constantly giving me a hard time. I want to be his friend, but he's afraid of allowing his emotional freeze to thaw ... even just a bit."
Seward flushed beneath his fur, his icy-blue eyes darting. "Lieutenant-commander ... "
" ... yes?"
"I would appreciate it if you did not mock me. Especially not on the bridge."
The marmot, lowering his voice, said, "I'm not mocking you. I'm just ... frustrated. You're afraid that I'm gonna contaminate you with something? Fine. Just ... but, please, don't give me such a hard time. I'm not under delusions of grandeur. I don't think of myself as better than you. I need your help ... to run this department efficiently."
The snow rabbit met his gaze.
"Please?"
A hesitation. And, finally, a tiny head-nod.
A smile from Antioch. "Thank you," he whispered. And, sighing again, he looked back at the control panels. The read-outs. The news. "It's a sad and scary state of affairs," the marmot remarked, his brushy tail wavering about. Swish-a-swish. "It's ... when the only way," he whispered, "that the Furry Federation can end their civil war ... is to start ANOTHER war."
"Against us," Seward supplied. "Unite all their divisions ... to fight a common 'enemy.' Though how they decided to choose us as their 'enemy of the month,' I do not know. They must know our recent track record in wars. They must know we WILL fight them if we have to ... "
"I don't know what to say ... I can't make excuses for them." A sad pause. A shake of the head. "It hurts my heart," Antioch whispered, "to see this happen. It's all spinning out of control. The loss of ... " He trailed. Sighed. "It'll take them a few weeks to gather up their forces. A few weeks until any potential fleet reaches the snow rabbit border. Assuming they don't think twice and ... think better of this. Assuming they don't change their minds."
"It is my experience that warm-blood furs are most ... stubborn."
"I've heard the same said about snow-furs ... " A slight smile. "Can we agree, then, that stubbornness is universal? As are many other," the marmot added, "traits?"
Seward politely tilted his head.
"At least we found this out NOW ... so, at least we have time to prepare."
"Yes."
A sigh. "I'll inform the captain. AFTER," the marmot stressed, "the dinner party." A sigh. And, looking to Seward, he offered, "Good job, though. Uh ... well, with everything."
"It was not me who discovered this news. It was our operatives. I am simply receiving it on the comm ... and relaying it to you."
"Well, still ... I feel comfortable having you on our side," the marmot told him.
Seward, despite himself, could not hide an eye-smile.
"Well, uh ... I got a dinner party to get to. Sure you don't wanna come?"
"No, I ... I do not." Seward cleared his throat, straightening. Truth be told, he did not want to see Aisling. She was a member of his breeding party. They were, in the rotation of partner-sharing, to be each other's partners for the next twenty-four hours. Starting tonight. In her bed. Her quarters. The problem was: Aisling intimated him. She was a very brisk, dominant femme. She was not his favorite partner. He got more pleasure from the other three femmes in the party. And that's what sex was about, right? Pleasure? If Aisling wasn't going to give him enough pleasure to satiate his rampant, virile breeding drive (and he doubted she would be able to), it would upset his body. Which would upset his mind. Which would upset his job performance. He anticipated that tomorrow would be a very miserable day.
"Seward?"
A blink. "Yes." The snow rabbit cleared his throat.
"You okay."
A slight, distracted nod. "Yes," he repeated.
Antioch squinted a bit, nodding lightly. "Okay," he whispered. "Well, uh ... my wife will be wondering where I went off to. So ... "
" ... yes. Go. I will watch the bridge." Aside from the two of them, there was a snow rabbit femme at the helm. And someone at the science station. But it was mostly the night staff, now. The 'skeleton crew,' as they called it. "And I am fine," Seward lied.
With a final nod, the marmot shuffled away.
And Seward lowered his head, sighing heavily. Distinctly unhappy with many things.