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"You're not an officer."

"No."

"Never seen you ... " A wide, gaping yawn, showing all his teeth. " ... before." He cleared his throat, shaking his rusty-red man. The rest of his fur being a tawny gold. "Mm. An otter, huh? What's it they say about otters?"

Milka gave no response, already knowing where he was going.

"'Otters are hotter'?" Terrence chuckled predictably. "Well ... " He eyed Milka, eyes darting up and down her body. "Can't argue with that, really. Never had one, but ... " A tilt of his head. " ... I imagine it's true. You're born swimmers. Playful. I heard that otters get so playful during sex that they nip and shove and chirp ... roll all around." Again, drinking her in with his eyes. "Gotta love that tail, too. Long, sturdy. Good for the paws to ... "

"I'm taken," she whispered, her tone level. In control. She wasn't going to be rattled. Not easily, anyway. Maybe he was trying to unnerve her with innuendo. Or maybe he was just horny. Maybe he was nearing his peak. She didn't know. She didn't care.

"Taken? By who? Must be someone else," he wagered, "that I don't know ... you vanish for six weeks, and look what happens? All these new muzzles to memorize!" A pause, waiting. Raising a brow. "Well? Who is he?"

"We're not here to share pleasantries."

"A shame." Still smiling. Not a gentle smile. "Though, really, your reticence to tell me who you're fucking hints at some ... deep, dark regret, maybe? Some twisted ... "

" ... where have you been the past six weeks? Location?"

"Here and there." The lion was on the floor of his cell. Sitting, lounging against the wall. His tail twitched lazily, as feline tails often did. His entire manner was lackadaisical. As if being in a holding cell behind a force-field in the station's security office didn't bother him at all. He was playing it cool.

And so was Milka. "Location?"

"You already asked that, my dear."

"And you didn't answer."

"Oh, I answered. I just didn't give you the answer you wanted." A squint, narrowing his slitted, golden eyes. "Isn't that what a good interrogation is all about? The interrogator getting what he wants? Or she," he allowed, smiling. "Never been interrogated by a femme before. I'm sure it's a lot of fun." A pause. "Lower the force-field, otter. Let's ... "

" ... location?"

A sigh, shaking his head. His angular ears cocked. "I already," he emphasized, "told you."

"According to unclassified crew logs, your behavior in the weeks leading up to your disappearance was increasingly erratic. I say 'increasingly' because every fur on the station tells me that you were erratic to begin with."

"Hardly objective, are they?" the lion posed, raising a brow.

"I trust them more than I trust you."

"And why is that? You don't even know me."

"You've submitted yourself for my judgment," she said, "with your tone, your words, your body language. All of it has been casual and crude. And dismissive. You don't speak and act like a fur I can trust."

"I always was a weak thespian."

"I can use big words with the best of them, kitty. You're not going to impress me with intellect."

"Kitty, huh? That a species slur?"

"I don't know. Is 'otters are hotter' verbal sexual harassment?"

An amused chuckle. "My rudder-tailed dear, really ... really, this is most silly. Is an argument really called for?"

"Who says I'm arguing?"

The lion's gaze turned serious. Combative. "I say." He looked her over. Again. "You're not an officer. What are you? Mercenary?"

No response.

"No, of course not. You'd have commenced to the kicking and clawing by now if you were." A pause, eyes sparking. "A pirate," he guessed.

She squinted at him. Her roundish ears perked. Her whiskers gave a few brushes, and her rudder-tail steered slowly back and forth, back and forth. Her rich-brown fur soft. Her breaths coming easy.

"I'm right, aren't I? So, you're a pirate. Hmm ... that is interesting. I have to admit, that IS interesting."

"I'm an ex-pirate."

"Sure. Sure ... and I'm an 'ex-captain'." A chuckle-purr. "Once a pirate, always a pirate. Once a captain? Always," he whispered, "a captain. And I was the captain of this place. Oh, sure I CHOSE to leave, but still ... they replaced me so quickly? And with that damn mouse, no less," he spat. "In MY office, running MY station. His earthy scent all over." A shudder. "I am immune to 'mousey cuteness'."

"You seem to have a fixation with mouses. Maybe not as immune as you think." A pause. "According to the crew, and according to your Federation profile, you have a history of violence against mouses. It's gotten you into trouble several times."

"Depends on what you mean by trouble. It was nothing I couldn't handle." A pause. His eyes going dark. "Mouses deserve what they get. They're weak," he hissed.

"So, you make it a habit of preying on the weak?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"That, in itself, is a sign of weakness."

"It's a sign of intellect," Terrence argued. "Survival of the fittest. Natural selection. Mouses are weak, needy. They require constant care and affection. They're fragile. They require constant energy. To allow them to live, to take on leading roles in society? Is to take resources and time away from the rest of us. The strong ones. The ones who deserve it, who have EARNED it ... by providing for and protecting civilization. It's plain and simple science. Plain and simple evolution."

"And scoffers like to tell me," Milka whispered, "that religion is to blame for intolerance ... thank you," she said, eyes burning, "for giving me a clear example with which to prove them wrong." A tilt of her head. "In your mind, the weak should perish because they are weak? Where's the morality in that?"

"Morality has no place in a predator's life. A predator is honed by millions of years of perfect continuity. We are honed to hunt. To enjoy the thrill of the kill. Modern morality? Has decided that hunting, that taking sentient life is 'immoral.' We did it for millions of years, and it was fine, but now? We are vilified for it." A shake of the head, obviously angry. "No, morality is not a biological invention. We are not born with morality. It's psychological, forced onto us by society."

"I see. In other words, it doesn't matter if following your instincts hurts others? I guess their needs and wants are damned. In other words," she continued, "science, at its core, has no morals ... and must steal its morals from other sources. You admit that religion is necessary to provide a foundation for systems of morality?"

"You're changing the subject," he accused. "Anyway, philosophy can provide society's morals. Provide the foundation. Religion," he insisted, "isn't needed. But you are missing the point: morals contradict evolution."

"So do most things," the otter replied, continuing with, "Philosophy can provide society's morals? It's academic. Just like science. And is malleable. It can be twisted too easily. It has no solidity. It is a house on the sand. Why build your moral foundation with a system that allows for those morals to change when you wish to change them?"

"And I suppose, then, that religion is a house on the rocks?"

"What else would it be?" Milka asked.

"A house of backwards cowards."

"And who's lacking objectivity, now?" the otter asked, raising a brow. "Funny how bigotry can go ... isn't religion a lifestyle? Not a hobby, an interest ... but a lifestyle? And, therefore, isn't hating religion still bigotry? But I tend to notice that furs who hate religion rarely think of themselves as bigots. Though if someone were to hate their non-religious lifestyle? Those same furs would shout 'intolerance' in the blink of an eye. Talk about a double-standard. Why do you think that is, hmm?"

The lion growled. "This line of questioning is pointless!"

"I suppose you'd think that, wouldn't you? If you believed things happened randomly, for no reason. With no purpose."

"You can justify anything in the name of religion," the lion sneered.

"And you can justify just as much without it," was the quick, cutting counter. "Your point?"

Gritting his teeth, Terrence simply replied, "You're a pirate, otter. How good a Christian are you, hmm? What ground have you to stand on?"

"I was forgiven. I was redeemed. I left that life ... and repented," she whispered. "I stand in the blood of Christ my Savior."

"How gruesome," was the eye-rolling reply. "Spare me," he mocked. "Surprising that you would accept such imagery. I am not allowed to shed blood by society. Yet you revel in Your Savior's shed blood."

"His blood came from selfless sacrifice. Nothing great is ever had or known without great sacrifice. The blood you like to revel in? Comes from selfish, forced sacrifice of other creatures who want to live. And you deprive them of that."

"You speak intricately, otter. But that's all it is. Intricacy. It's one thing to say all of this in heated debate ... it's another thing to prove it has a practical application in reality. I can't forgive naivete. And you, dear, are naive."

"Of course, your viewpoint on life doesn't allow for such radical forgiveness, does it?" she asked. "Is that why you can't forgive mouses for their 'supposed' weaknesses? Is that why you hurt them? They're gentle, innocent creatures ... anyone who would hunt mouses is a monster. And that's what you are, lion."

"Your God," he mocked, "designed me to hunt mouses. Blame him. Not me."

"He designed you to protect them. You have the body, the strength, the defenses to protect them ... you've merely twisted God's original intent. Instead of protecting prey with your claws and your teeth, you hunt them."

"They," he repeated, emphasizing his words, "deserve it. I hurt them because I am a feline ... and they are rodents. It is what," he whispered, "we do. I was DESIGNED to do it," he insisted. "Why else would I like it? They squirm, they twitch ... I want to push them around, so I do. Why should I ignore my instinct? Instinct is not morally wrong."

"Instinct isn't. But the application of instinct? Can totally be. The hunting of sentient species became illegal one hundred years ago."

"And yet, being a pirate ... you must know that furs still hunt each other. The predators hunt the prey. Eat them. Spill their blood. The prey still fear us ... "

" ... the last time I checked, the prey were fighting back."

"The snow rabbits. Yes, I knew you'd bring them up. They are ... an unfortunate kind of prey. Their feelings are frozen. If they were able to fully feel fear ... they would know better than to challenge us."

"But they can't fully feel that fear. And they have challenged you. They're the quadrant's most dominant species right now. Not felines, not canines, not foxes. Snow rabbits." She stepped closer to the force-field. "Funny, though. Cause you seemed to imply that 'evolution' dictated that prey were weak and deserved to be hunted ... with the justification of 'natural selection.' But if the prey are, in reality, stronger than the predators ... doesn't that indicate that your perfect 'science of life' is illogical? That the SPIRIT," the otter said, getting passionate, "that the SOUL of an individual determines who he or she is, and what he or she can do. Not instinct. Not genetics. That it is faith, God's paw that unities furs, faith that motivates one to rise us up beyond what should be possible, what should be explainable ... that allows us," she whispered, "to break through." A tilt of the head. "How else can you explain what the snow rabbits have done? If not with faith?"

"It is simply ... a mistake," the lion breathed, dangerously. "And it will be corrected in due time."

"I see. A mistake. So, you're not going to give credit to the prey ... for outsmarting you? You're not going to admit that it was their Christian faith that gave them the strength and motivation to press forward, against all odds? You're going to say it was simply a glitch in the evolutionary ladder. And that the mind-less, soul-less universe will see that and right itself? Tell me this, cat: if life can only come from other life ... how did life come from lifelessness? Moreover: how can you explain the nature of individuality? Identity? Memory? Emotion? Beauty? Surely, something so random as evolution couldn't have led to poetry, music, art ... love. Those things require transcendence. Science lives in a box. What can be seen, what can be proven. There is nothing transcendent in science. But in faith? With God having created such things?"

"What does this have to do ... with me," the lion breathed, "or with anything?" He glared at her, wishing he could slash her throat.

"In order to successfully interrogate you, I need to know how your mind operates. How it leans. What you believe in. How you react to tough, personal questions." The otter, taking a small breath through her black, diamond-shaped nose, whispered, "You've given me mountains of information to work with, Terrence. I very much," she said, so close to the force-field, "appreciate that."

RAWR! A roar-hiss, lunging. BZZ! The force-field glowing a faint blue as he hit it. And he fell back. Another hiss. "Lower the force-field!"

"Not yet," she said, slowly padding back and forth. Back in forth in front of him. "Not just yet, kitty ... not yet," she whispered, eyes burning.

"You seen Milka?"

Hyacinth looked up, chew-chewing her cud. "Mm ... " Chew-chew. "No." A shake of her head, her big, black nose sniffing. Cows had a 'nosy' look about them. Her ears flapped as she explained, "She's probably working on something. You know, with improving the station's defenses or something." Hyacinth's tender, brown eyes met Benji's eyes. "I wouldn't worry." The two of them were in the ward room. Not needed in Ops. Their spouses busy.

"I know. I'm not worried." A pause. "I, uh, just wanted to check up on her. The computer won't tell me where she is." He frowned, his roundish ears perking. His roundish tail making subtle movements. "That's kind of odd, isn't it? Why wouldn't the sensors show me where she is?"

"Maybe they're down," was all the cow said. Knowing, in truth, that Petra had asked the computer to mask the otter's bio-sign for the time being. So Benji wouldn't end up wandering into the security office.

Benji's whiskers twitched. He thought for a moment. "Everyone seemed kind of tense when they came back. From the surface, I mean? What happened down there? Did you find the bio-sign?"

"Yeah. Well ... yeah, we did."

"Who was it?" the nutria asked, blinking. "No one told me ... " The mouse-beaver's light-brown fur looked fresh, clean. From the last time he and Milka had showered (a few hours ago). The nutria was a curious creature. Such a mixture of things. The semi-aquatic rodent had been frustrated at the constant confusion he got when he'd say what species he was. He'd get blank faces. Mistaken echoes of, 'Nutrient?'

"You wanna play checkers?" Hyacinth asked, trying to change the subject. She'd been instructed to ensure that Benji didn't find out about Milka's current task (interrogating Terrence, the lion, the station's ex-captain). They didn't want Benji to freak out. He was a rodent, after all. An anxiety attack wouldn't be out of the question. To know his mate was in the same room with a very dangerous, violent feline. But, also: Milka didn't want him to know. This was something she had to do. But she didn't want Benji to know the details. Of course, the nutria knew she'd been a pirate for many years. And, no, she'd never actually killed anyone. But she was capable of dark things. And if he knew just how dark she could get? Maybe he would be scared of her. Or stop loving her. Or ...

" ... checkers? Um ... not really."

"It's fun. Checkers is fun," the brown Swiss insisted. She was a very easygoing individual, never one to raise her voice. Some might consider her too bland. She didn't have Wheldon's outspokenness or Mortimer's penchant for fun-arguing. Didn't have Petra's quirky dialect or charm. And so on. When compared to the other furs on the station, she might've seemed rather plain. But Desmond didn't think so. He found her to be warm, kind. A great conversationalist. Someone to trust. She had a good sense of humor, and she was very understanding. And patient.

"I'm just waiting for Mortimer to get back," Benji said.

"He with Seldovia?" The cow raised a brow.

A slight nod. "Yeah ... " The nutria looked down at his computer pad, which he seemingly always had with him. He tapped it a few times. It made soothing 'beep-a-beep' sounds.

"What're you writing?" The cow stuck her nose forward. Her supple breasts very evident, even when covered by her uniform-top (as they were now).

"Uh, just a poem." Benji stole a glance at her breasts. It was hard not to. He'd heard that cows constantly lactated.

"A poem?" She smiled, seeing where he was looking.

Blushing, looking away, Benji frowned. "Why does everyone say it like that? With that tone of voice? Like they've never seen any-fur writing a poem before?"

"Never have," was her honest reply, as she leaned back in her chair. "Wanna read me what you've written?"

"No offense? But, uh ... no. No, not really." A shake of the head. His whiskers twitch-twitched.

"Well, if you don't want to be asked that," the cow said, warmly, putting her hoof-like hands on the smooth, illuminated table-top, "then you shouldn't write in front of other furs. That's like an open invitation to be asked to see what you're writing ... you know? I mean ... "

" ... no, that makes sense." A pause. And a sigh. "It's just ... "

" ... what?" Behind them, through the oval-windows, were the stars. The station was at a twenty-four hour rotation. The ward room was currently facing away from the planet. But the globe would soon be coming back into view.

"Silly. You'd think it's silly ... "

"I'm sure it'd be no sillier than something I'd write."

The nutria blew out a breath. "Well ... alright, this one's for Milka. But I don't have a title yet. And I'm, uh ... well ... I'm going to give it to her tonight. I've been working on it all afternoon."

" ... doesn't have to be perfect. I'm not much of a critic," Hyacinth assured, nodding. A warm smile. "I'm pretty docile. Everyone will tell you that."

"They have, actually," Benji said, looking to the cow. And smiling a bit, whiskers twitching.

Hyacinth gave a giggle-moo. "Mm. Yeah ... Seldovia, right? She filled you in on every-fur's quirks and such?"

"How'd you know?"

"She's a bit cheeky."

A nod. And then, blowing out another breath, Benji said, "Well, just give me an impression, you know, about how you think it, uh ... how it is. Just no one-word responses? I just can't stand reading my poems to furs and having them just say, 'good' or 'nice.' Drives me crazy. It's easy to tell when they don't really care."

"Well, if I didn't want to know about your poetry, I wouldn't have asked you. Now, go on," she urged, gently.

Clearing his throat, the nutria read:

Hyper-physical (animal) civility,

drooling for the pretty,

curving kind of tail;

oh, love-perfect female,

bring me to gentility!

For this is fire,

this (always-gripping) briar

patch of heart-beating,

feel-good flicker-fleeting.

Still, I squeak higher!

A tail that shakes

from touches you make

to my (yes, please!)

eager-beaver male needs.

How this love quakes!

Not (right now) civil,

I do not quibble

when you 'tame' me,

acting the quenching sea

to my thirsty nibbles.

And when it's done,

the (hip-grinding) 'fun,'

I proceed to flush

for behaving as such:

like a wildfire sun.

Hyacinth nodded thoughtfully. "Impressive! I mean, like ... sounds all proper, you know? Like a poem you'd see in a book? Kinda over my head, though ... "

"Well, it's about ... just the ... hmm." Benji's whiskers twitched. "I don't really have much experience, you know, explaining my poems to others. They all make sense to me. I just assume that they will for others."

"No, it was pretty. I get that it was about sex."

"Well, about desire. Not sex. Desire." A pause. "Okay, it is about sex, but ... it doesn't sound very artistic to say that."

A giggle-moo.

"But it's about love, though, and how that desire can be all-consuming, but how Milka ... well, she makes it better. She quenches it. Quenches," the nutria corrected, "me."

A smile. "Romantic. She'll love it, Benji. I bet you anything."

"You think so? And ... it's romantic, yeah?"

"Course. Like ... 'wildfire sun,' you said. That makes me think of passion. That makes me think of things that are hot. Like a part of nature. Something natural and evident."

"See, it didn't go over your head as much as you said," Benji told her, smiling.

Another giggle-moo. "Mm. Maybe not. I don't know. Anyway, I liked it."

"Did you notice that each line had four words?"

"Not from you reading it aloud, no," she admitted.

"Oh. Well ... yeah, I guess you'd need to see it in print to really catch on that." He tapped at his pad a few times. "I'm not sure how to title it, though. I'm never so good with titles."

"How come?" She blinked.

"Cause you have to describe everything that comes after a title ... with those two, three words or so, you know? It sets the tone. The first thing you read in any poem, or in any story: is the title. It's the first impression. And it has to be good. And I just ... in my mind, I don't really have that crisp kind of title. That crisp, meaningful title that unveils itself as you go on. Or that immediately makes you curious. Or that has great imagery, even. There are lots of things you can do with a title. I just put so much into the actual work that ... when I have to back and title it, it's, uh ... I don't know." His whiskers twitched.

The cow thought for a moment, suggesting, "Well, how 'bout you title it first? Instead of last?"

"Well, cause I don't know what I'm gonna write about until it's written. So, I can't know what to title it until it's all there."

"I know, but ... no see, what if you come up with a title first. And then build your poem based on that title? Around it? I mean, just to try it. You wouldn't have to do it like that all the time." A pause. "Maybe it would help?"

A slight nod, and a smile. "Well ... yeah, I guess it could. I'll try that. Next poem I write, I'll start it that way. Title first. Then everything else after."

"Good," Hyacinth said, nodding. Still smiling. "Good." And, letting out a big breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. Her ropy tail with the brush-tail end swap-swapping about.

Benji, pausing, watched her tail.

She opened one eye.

"Uh ... " A blush. As he nodded, pointing. "You're hitting yourself with your tail."

"I know. Habit."

"Okay ... " The nutria was a bit confused.

"No, see, us cows? We tend to live in the countryside and stuff. And our sweat seems to be very sweet to flies. Our tail helps us swat at them. So, we're always swishing it in the summer, keeping them away." A giggle-moo. "It just becomes a habit. Like how squirrels constantly groom their tails or ... you know? I don't realize I do it."

Benji nodded. "That makes sense." A bit of a giggle-squeak. "I didn't know that. Don't know much about cows."

"And I don't know much about nutrias. Care to tell me?"

"If I start, I won't stop," was all Benji said. "Besides, I've told most every-fur on the station all there is to know about nutrias ... and they just stare at me and nod. Like I'm some kind of rare zoo animal. Nutrias aren't that rare!" he insisted. "We're just not very conspicuous."

"Well, I'm sure that has its benefits. I mean, the more-known species? They got lots of preconceived notions and expectations set on them. They have to live up to all that. You don't have to live up to anyone's preconceived notions of how a nutria should act or be ... cause they don't know how one should act or be." Yet another giggle-moo (a curious but pleasant sound). "So, it may be frustrating having to explain yourself, but you don't got it so bad," she insisted.

"Never thought about it that way," Benji admitted, at a whisper. A sigh as he turned his head, looking out the window. "It's beautiful, you know. All of that ... stars, stuff. All that infinity. Like God made us a giant playground. So big that we can never possibly play on all of it." His voice got quiet, reverent. And he sighed again. "I do my best, you know?" he told Hyacinth, looking back to her. "To write and create, and ... like He did. Like the Creator did. I hope I please him with what I do. I don't wanna make all this stuff, spend all this time and energy trying to make art ... only to be," he whispered, "none the richer for it."

"You're not none the richer. What you do? It has its purpose. It has its merits. And it gives other joy. Your wife, for instance? She'll get so much joy when she reads that poem. And her happiness will be more than money can buy. And the sense of accomplishment you feel because of it ... it goes on and on," the cow told him. "Just don't think that you have to create something grand and vital every time. Sometimes, just create, and ... express yourself. See where it goes. Be humble, meaningful ... create things that you wouldn't be ashamed of God seeing. Cause He sees all of it, you know."

"I know," was the whisper. A pause. "Thanks. Um ... it's not often I get to talk about stuff like this. Most furs don't understand."

"Well, I'm not much a creator, myself. But I do enjoy reading and ... you know, looking at pictures and stuff. I just wish I could contribute. Give back. Instead of just digesting all of it. Makes me feel kind of guilty."

"We all have our talents, though," Benji added. "Strengths and weaknesses. Just because you can't make art doesn't mean you're less ... besides, artists? They're all crazy, you know? It can be stressful. And it's not exactly a good career-choice, but ... it's an obsession. Yeah," he whispered, deciding on that. "Creating is an obsession. I guess that's why most furs end up making a baby or two during their lifetimes. They're obsessed with sex, which is ... a means of creation. And love? Is the creation of trust, empathy, intimacy ... union. I mean, creation isn't JUST art, you know? Creation can be in sports you play, in conversations you have ... in making love. So, I think you are an artist, Hyacinth. We all are. It's just ... we all create different things. And we just have to create with as much purity and passion as we can muster. And leave behind something that will make lives better."

The brown Swiss smiled, tail still swish-swishing. "Well said. Now ... are you gonna play checkers or not?"

A giggle-squeak, looking away. "I'm not good at checkers."

"Everyone's good at checkers. Come on, there's a few games over in the wall compartment over there ... "

The force-field was lowered, the otter's weapon (an old-class phase pistol) trained on the lion. "Don't ... try," she panted, blood dripping from her right fore-arm. "Don't try that again."

"Or what?" was the taunt. "I'll regret it? How original."

"You will regret it. But that's not what I was going to say."

"And what were you going to say?" The lion's blood was pumping, heart hammering. He was primed to fight.

"That I'll shoot you. I won't kill you, lion, but I'll stun you ... and you'll wake up with an even bigger headache than the one you have now."

"I'm shaking in my fur."

"Whoever you took sarcasm-lessons from ... you need your money back," Milka said. The lion had clawed her arm. Had leapt at her, slashing. She's spun, quickly. Not before he'd drawn blood. But fast enough to whap her sturdy rudder-tail square into his side, knocking the breath out of him. Turning back around, she'd kicked him back, squaring her stance.

"You want to know where I've been the past six weeks?" the lion said, grinning. A toothy grin, at that. "I was with the humans."

"What?" the otter went, making a face.

"See? You don't believe me."

"What do you mean ... 'with the humans'?"

"I used the gateway. This is a big station. Many old, unused pods just sitting around. I took one ... one that wasn't registered in the ship's computer. No one knew it was missing. And, therefore, no one knew where I'd gone. I went to the surface. Waited until it showed an image of the humans on their world ... " A breath. " ... and I stepped through."

The otter squinted. "Those gateways are one-way. The network that hooks them all together was disabled millennia ago. You wouldn't have been able to get back. And if you had? The humans would've followed you."

"And yet here I am." The lion spread his paws.

Milka squinted. She could normally tell when someone was lying. Terrence was a feline. And had an element of calculated cunning about him. And the otter, looking him over, whispered, "You would've had their scent on you ... when our away team found you? None of them smelled anything odd on you. Except alcohol."

"Well ... " The lion licked his dry lips. " ... you're not as gullible as I'd hoped."

"And you're not as good a liar as you think you are."

"Bicker, bicker, bicker," the lion went. "Is that all you know how to do?" He tried to slash at her again.

She jerked aside, delivering a kick. Missing. Regaining her balance, she ignored the last comment, knowing he was simply trying to bait her, draw her to anger. Cloud her focus. "Where were you? Where did you go? The truth." She was panting slightly.

"The truth?"

"The truth!" she repeated, firing her weapon. TSEW! It went a few inches past the lion's shoulder, hitting the bulkhead.

The lion jerked, eyes wide. Hissing. "That was AWFULLY close to my head!"

"What makes you think I wasn't trying to hit your head?" Milka whispered, very darkly.

The lion's fur bristled. "You want the truth? Well, I'm not going to tell you. Because you WANT to know," he replied, without hesitation. "Because I am going to spite you, ALL of you ... by not letting you have it."

"And you think that hurts me?" the otter asked, showing her own teeth. "Think again."

"If the lack of information regarding me and my whereabouts didn't hurt you, you wouldn't be standing in this cell with me."

Milka said nothing. Only, "We're going to obtain a tri-cobalt device. We're going to destroy those ruins. All the artifacts. We're already removing every piece of alien technology from the station ... and returning it."

"You can't destroy what's down there." The lion was serious, now. Suddenly more cooperative.

"And why not?"

"Because it's powerful. Such power? Do you know what you could do with that?"

"Rule a civilization?" she guessed.

"Exactly." A nod. "I want what's down there. Not for you. Not for Amelie. Not for the others. But for me. You do not know ... what some of those artifacts can do. What truly lies in those ruins. But I do. I went down there to harvest them, to steal them ... "

" ... using what ship?"

"I already told you: this is an old mining station. There are several abandoned shuttles lying around, unregistered, unused. I took one that no one would notice was missing. I masked my engine-trail. I was going to steal all I could and then go somewhere, master it ... I didn't really have a set plan. I just knew I didn't want to play by the rules. Stupid Federation. I swore an oath to them, and what do they do? Launch into civil war? Leaving me, a trained predator, out of the fighting? An insult! And, to further it, they become cowardly and try to end the fighting by launching a war against a 'common foe' ... and then getting beat by that foe, the snow rabbits? I hate snow rabbits. The past few years have been a disaster for the Federation. We went from the quadrant's main power to an also-ran."

"So, you got a bloody nose? Maybe you deserved it," she said, speaking of the Federation. "Maybe you needed to be knocked down a few rungs. Get some perspective. Or maybe you were just corrupt all along. And didn't deserve the power and prestige you'd clawed yourself to. Maybe it was only a matter of time before you lost it. And as for hating snow rabbits? You hate a lot of furs, apparently."

"And I've every right to. I wanted to ... " His paws shook with rage, claws out of their pads. He dug them into the carpeted floor. " ... I wanted to slaughter the Council, take over, and get rid of the snow rabbits. Get rid of the mouses, too."

"You're insane," Milka whispered, with a bit of disbelief. Her rudder-tail swayed. "How did you ever pass the psychological profile test to become a Captain?"

"I guess I'm a better liar than you give me credit for, hmm?"

The otter said nothing.

"The test wasn't hard to pass. Anyway, I'm not insane. I'm the only sane-thinking fur on this station. Everyone else? They tow the line. But I wasn't going to tow the Federation's line anymore. Not when they'd abandoned me, sent me to this ... place," he cursed. "Cut me off from society, from my species? I couldn't have sex." A scowl. "I had to do it with holograms. I had no femme felines. No femme predators ... I was the only predator among a crew of prey. Intolerable! You know how miserable it is to have no flesh-and-blood fur to breed with? It wasn't fair. And, then, the war, the losses ... all of it," he said, "led me to believe that they didn't deserve my loyalty anymore. And the only way I was going to get what I wanted was to take it. To take matters into my own paws."

"And what did you want? Control? Attention? You thought harvesting the technology in those artifacts ... would give you what? Power? Prestige?"

"It would give me a bargaining tool. It would give me an edge. And I'm not the first feline, otter, to go rogue. You'll notice that felines have the highest rates of 'AWOL' incidents in the fleet. Much higher than any other species. We're independent. We're smarter than you."

"By 'you,' I assume you're referring to the rest of us," Milka said.

"You assume correctly."

"Felines might go 'AWOL' more than other furs, but not all of them brutalize mouses. Not all of them illegally steal ancient, dangerous artifacts and attempt to harvest them for personal gain."

"Not all of them are as opportunistic as me. Some of them are too civilized for their own good." A scowl. "The infamous Captain Kalmbach, for instance? He gives us feline rogues a bad name. He's FAR too civilized. He has a dark interior, and he knows it, but he tries to fight it. He needs to let go. He needs to follow his instinct."

"Like you?" The otter made a face.

"Yes." A pause. And a shake of the head, going back to, "You cannot destroy the ruins. They are a fountain of wealth. Power! You cannot destroy all that ... "

" ... or we'd deprive you of your bounty. Sorry, but that's not a good enough reason."

"You don't know what you're doing."

"You never told me," the otter whispered, weapon held steady, "what happened to you. You went to the planet? What happened to your bio-sign?"

A pause.

The otter waited.

"I do not know," he whispered. "I went there. I opened those boxes, those things ... one of them had a button in it. I pressed it."

"And?"

"And the next thing I knew, it was six weeks later, and I had a bottle of wine in my paw. And I was in that building. I didn't know what happened. It was ... so, I drank. And then my good friends," he said, with obvious sarcasm, "came and shot me."

"So, you just 'vanished' for six weeks? Literally? With no memory of what happened during that time?"

"Yes."

She looked at him, intently. He was telling the truth.

"It is ... not a pleasant feeling," he whispered, "to have no recollection of what happened. That button stole my memories. Six weeks of my life. There is another box with a button here on the station. Maybe it does the same thing. But Amelie keeps that one tightly secured. She hasn't pressed it." He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe it shifts whoever touches it into some sub-space pocket, or out of phase with normal time. Maybe that's what happened to me. Or maybe it sent me somewhere glorious and then brought me back. Like my body was a yo-yo. Why did I have that bottle of wine?"

"Petra told me that stuff was 'dark science'," Milka said. "Looks like you, Mr. Fur of Reason, are a victim of 'dark science'."

"It would appear so." The lion slowly began to grin. "Sooner the darkness than the light, though. Right, otter?"

"I'm going to obtain," she repeated, "that tri-cobalt device. And destroy everything. Under Peregrine's orders."

"That mouse is a fool."

"You don't know him."

"I don't have to. He's a mouse," Terrence stated, as if his logic made sense. "And if you're in agreement with him? Then you're a fool, too."

"I'm sorry you think so," the otter said, "but, believe me: I'm not gonna lose any sleep over it." She backed up, and before she turned the force-field back on, said, "Oh, and by the way: you're coming with us."

The lion squinted, not understanding.

"When we steal the device, the salamanders will undoubtedly know I was behind it. But if I leave behind a valuable gift ... " She trailed, picking up with, "They love to 'play' with prisoners. I'll bet they've never had a kitty to play with. I take their device and leave you? Might appease them enough to keep them occupied for a while ... keep them away from the station."

"I'm a Federation captain! You can't turn me over to pirates."

"Ex," she reminded, "captain. And I can. We're leaving tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep." And with that, she turned the force-field back on. Glared at him. And left.

"That was," Benji breathed, panting, giving a residual squeak, "so nice ... " The word 'nice' got drawn into a slow, lazy sigh. "Oh ... "

" ... it was," the otter breathed, flushed beneath the fur. Her eyes closed. "It was. Mm," was her little moan. "Mm." And she raised her muzzle as she pulled her hips up. Up and off him. For she'd been at a straddle of her husband's naked body. And, letting out a deep breath, she lowered again. Straddling his lower belly, now, and leaning forward, forward, until she was lying flat atop of him.

His arms went around her back. In a natural, flowing hug. "Oh," he breathed, happily, nibbling on her neck in that rodent way.

She had to smile at this. And, swallowing, whispered, "Benji ... " Her smile began to fade.

"Yeah?" he whispered, in the dimness of their quarters. It was evening, now. They were in bed. Having, of course, just finished a very pleasurable bout of breeding.

"I, uh ... tomorrow, I'm gonna take a runabout. With some of the other crew-furs. We brought back a lion from the planet. He used to be the captain of this sation, but he's not anymore. He's in the security office."

Benji blinked, eyes fully opening. His whiskers twitched.

"I'm going to raid a pirate depot, steal a tri-cobalt device ... and leave the lion in its place. And then get back here with the device."

"Why?" he whispered, worry flooding his tone. His eyes looked bolder in the dark. Pupils fully dilated (but that was also from the sex; furs' pupils dilated when aroused).

"We need to destroy the ruins on the planet. Once and for all. They're too dangerous. In the wrong paws?" she said, leaving the question in the air. "It can only be destroyed using a tri-cobalt device."

"How come?"

"I don't know, darling," she confessed, nosing his neck. Breathing of his scent. A sigh. "I don't know ... but I, uh ... I kinda don't want you to go with me. I want to protect you. Keep you safe. It might be dangerous." A pause. "But I think it should be your choice."

"I wanna go," Benji whispered, immediately. "I wanna be with you."

She'd expected that. And she didn't try to change his mind. Just said, "I love you, darling. I got your tail, okay?"

A happy smile, holding her naked body down to his, their sweat-matted fur meshing softly. "Okay," the nutria breathed.

She nuzzled him, lying atop of him. She whispered things to him. Doing so until ...

" ... I almost forgot," he said. "I almost forgot," he breathed, twisting his body a bit. Reaching to the bed-side stand. And grabbing his computer pad. "Here. I, uh ... I wrote you a poem. It doesn't have a title," he apologized. "But it's for you."

The otter, turning her head (so that her cheek was on his chest), said, "Mind propping it up while I read it?"

He did so, their bodies together, warm. So, so warm. So soft. The pleasure from their breeding fading, but the afterglow still lingering. And the added comfort of their bed was making them a bit sleepy.

And she read his poem. And she loved it (as she loved him). And told him so. She smiled and kissed him. And Benji, in his head, thought: Oh, Lord, I am indeed much richer. Oh, thank You. Thank You ...