All Aflame
"This is Commander Peregrine of the Federation Space Station Redwing. Please identify yourselves." He let out a breath, waiting. Waiting.
Still waiting.
Continuing, "According to our sensors, your ship has been this way before. The last time you were in this system, you attacked us." The mouse hadn't been here during that attack. It had been about a month ago. But Petra had filled him in on the details, including what tactics to expect from the space pirates, who (as far as they could tell) were mostly amphibians. Salamanders and the like. "Please respond."
"Nothing, Peregrine," said Hyacinth, on the other side of Ops. She cut the channel, removing her earpiece, turning her head slightly. "But they heard you. I'm sure of that." The brown Swiss's ears flap-flapped, and she put the earpiece back in. Looking back to her consoles. "Not even a 'hello, we're going to rob you today'."
"They don't notice niceties," Petra insisted, at the tactical station. She tapped a few buttons. The solidly-built, scrappy rat said, "I got the shields raised. They'll take 'em down, though."
"You're saying our shields have no chance of holding?" The mouse's eyes widened a bit, whiskers all a-twitch, all a-twitch. Anxiety beginning to flare. He'd never been on the front lines of anything. He'd been kept from that (by his superiors, who doubted his capacity to function in extreme danger). He wasn't really a fighter, though he'd endured much during his life.
"We're s'posed to have four shield emitters, but only two are working. The other two got fried, and Mortimer can't fix 'em without a full repair team and certain metal alloys ... which he doesn't have. So ... " An apologetic look.
The grey-furred mouse sighed, biting his lip. He hadn't realized they were at such a blatant disadvantage. He'd known this station was a bit run-down, but to have only half of the shield emitters functioning?
"Don't worry 'bout it. They boarded us last time, and we fought 'em off."
"Somehow, that doesn't reassure me. I'm sure there are more of them," the mouse whispered, "than there are of us."
"They're goobers," the rat assured, her thicker, naked-pink tail snaking about.
"Never heard space pirates called 'goobers'."
"Well, I'll call 'em that to their slimy faces, if y'like. That's what they are. But I'm gonna go down to the docking ring. That's where they always board us at. They don't like the pylons, cause that's too far from the Promenade."
"Why would they need to be close to the Promenade?" the mouse asked, cute, dishy ears perking, going swivel-swivel. Swivel.
Petra, already standing, already holding a phase pistol in one paw, replied, "Science lab. Where Amelie keeps all those artifacts and things in those force-fields? That's what they're after."
"The artifacts?"
"They think they know what they're for, but ... they've not a clue. They just know that they're powerful and that they'd fetch a handsome profit on the black market. But, rest assured, they're not gettin' nothin'."
"Alright," was all the mouse whispered. He held his own tail in his paws, demurely. Effeminately. "Do you need my help?"
"Nah ... want you out of harm's way. They won't come to Ops. Never have before, anyway. Hyacinth, you watch my mouse?"
"I'll watch your mouse," the cow said genially, giving a big, gentle smile. Her ropy, brush-tipped tail swishing about. Her soft, grey-brown fur looking warm. But the cow always looked warm. She just had that warm build. That warm personality. Easygoing.
Peregrine just twitched. And sighed. "I'm the Commander. I'm ... I gotta do something. My station's about to be attacked. I can't just hole up in here like I'm burrowing away. I gotta Do something," he repeated.
"I know, hun. But I'm your first officer and tactical officer ... and your wife. I'm supposed to protect the top-ranking officer, which is you. And I'm supposed to protect my husband. Which is also you. I got double responsibility tryin' to keep you from harm. Trust me. We can take care of it ... "
" ... we?"
"Seldovia, Nin, and me. And Desmond. We'll beat 'em back," she repeated, trying to convince Peregrine. Her whiskers twitched a few times. Not out of nervousness. But out of anticipatory energy. Rats, unlike mouses, were used to tussling. Her adrenaline was starting to flow. She was readying herself.
The mouse, ever one to worry, had a hard time settling down. He just looked back to the oval-shaped viewer. The ship coming closer, closer. "I, uh ... I guess I'll try and distract them while you ready for the assault." A breath. "I'd just be in the way if I joined you."
"Hun, that's not true. It's ... you're not a fighter."
"You don't need to tell me anything I don't already know," he told her.
She sighed, tilting her head. "I'll be back," she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. But not having time to enter into a debate. "Love ya, hun."
"Love you, too," he whispered back, almost inaudible. Voice tender. Raw. Catching her gaze before she slipped into the lift, which jolted and whirred downward, taking her down to the Promenade. And the mouse blew out a breath, whiskers twitching, nose sniffing. He paced toward the center of the room, opening and closing his paws. His ears swivelled non-stop. He wasn't sure what to do with himself.
"Peregrine, they may be called 'space pirates,' but Petra's right: they're goobers."
The mouse, though he tried not to, had to smile at that word. It was a funny word. And he just shook his head and turned to the cow, asking, "Can you put the comm channel back up? I wanna try and talk to them again."
"They won't answer."
"I know. But ... I want them to know that just because I'm a mouse doesn't mean I'm gonna scurry into a corner and let them have their way with this place. I want to warn them off. And when they ignore me ... well," he said, whiskers twitching, squinting a bit as he looked at the pirate ship. "Well, whatever happens to them is their own fault."
Nin, stretching, limbering himself up, raised his arms and tugged his shirt up, up, and off. Tossing it to the foot of the nearest bio-bed. Prancer was readying some med-kits nearby, just in case anyone got hurt. Just in case. She tried not to think about it. Space pirates were known to kill. They were known to lack a certain degree of mercy.
The infirmary doors suddenly whooshed open, Desmond padding in. He stopped, blinking. Looking to Nin. Then to Prancer. Then to Nin again. "Now's not the time for you two to be gettin' yiffy. We're gonna be attacked soon." The rabbit gave a frown.
The porcupine made a face. "We're not gettin' yiffy."
"You're takin' your clothes off," the rabbit accused (in an unintentionally cute way), pointing a paw.
"I'm taking my SHIRT off. I can't use my quills," the porcupine explained, turning his back on the toffee-furred rabbit. "I can't use my back-quills," he specified, "if they're covered." As if on cue, his sharp, deadly quills raised from their safe, flat position. And extended out from his back in pointy, defensive fashion.
"Oh," was all the rabbit said. With a bit of awe in his tone. "Sharp."
"Thank you." A patient smile. Turning back around, the porcupine bobbed on the tips of his foot-paws. His back and his club-like tail all 'locked and loaded.' Though, of course, he couldn't shoot his quills. He could only dislodge them. "Where's Seldovia?"
"With Petra, I think. I dunno. I've, uh ... been conscripted. I'm supposed to provide backup."
"You got a phase pistol?"
"Not yet."
"You'll need one," the porcupine declared, padding away from the bio-beds. Heading for the door. "Come on," he told the cottontail.
Desmond obediently followed.
"Darling?" was Prancer's call. "Wait?" The cinnamon-furred squirrel, snapping shut a prepared med-kit, looked over to him. Their eyes met from across the room. "You'll be careful, won't you?"
"You'll be seeing me again real soon," was Nin's promise. Gaze washing over his wife. So agile and acrobatic, so confident and caring. She'd never been afraid of his 'prickliness.' Be it physical or emotional. Used to, he'd been a bit cynical. Been a bit of a downer. But she'd cured him of that. She'd loved him at a time when he'd thought no one could.
"I'll hold you to that," the rodent breathed, tenderly. Loving the porcupine's honesty. The genuine ease with which he expressed himself. He was a calm, cool individual, for the most part. And he was grounded. Balancing out her sense of scamper.
"I know." Nin's eyes sparkled. And he went out the whooshing, double doors, Desmond in tow.
"I'm ready. I'm ready," the skunk assured, shifting her weight from hip to hip. Swaying in place. Her luxurious tail was arched, the fur bold, silky-black, with that beautiful, pure-white stripe running down the middle.
"Just be sure ya know what you're sprayin'," Petra reminded, with a bit of a reprimand.
"Look, the last time was a mistake."
"Don't see how one can make THAT mistake. That's a pretty big mistake." During the last space pirate attack, Seldovia had sprayed the salamanders with her sex pheromones. Instead of her 'bad skunk smell.'
"I had other things on my mind, okay? Look, you don't even know ... "
"Raccoons on your mind, more like," was the rat's mutter.
"I happened to be having sex when the attack started. I was in the middle of ... of things," Seldovia stressed. "I was interrupted." She crossed her arms defensively. "The pheromones were already loaded. Wasn't my fault. Pirates could've picked a better time to launch a surprise attack."
"Well, I'll tell them only to attack when you and Mortimer aren't breeding. I'm sure they'll oblige."
Seldovia smiled. She was a sultry creature. Most skunks were. Black, white. Bold. Silky. She could be described with a lot of sensual, appealing adjectives. "Never hurts to ask. After all, that's about the only thing we have in common with space pirates, isn't it? Breeding? Anyway, it incapacitated them, didn't it? I remember it did ... "
" ... yeah, an' they got rewarded for ransacking us by gettin' to bliss out on your pheromones. Some deterrent."
"You know," the skunk said, grinning now. "I bet that's why they're coming back. For me. They just had to smell me again."
Petra rolled her eyes. "Just spray from the right gland this time, 'kay?"
"I will ... " A chuckle. "You're so fun to tease. You know that?"
"No."
"Well, I'm telling you," Seldovia said.
"You must think that raccoon habit of lovin' to argue is some super kind o' cute."
"Think? I don't have to think it is, Petra. I KNOW," she affirmed, giggle-mewing. "A good argument is the best form of verbal foreplay ... as long as the topic of the argument is light enough in nature."
"Well, you'll have to give me lessons another time."
"I will. You DO need lessons, you know."
"Rats know how to volley words well enough," Petra assured.
"For arguing to be fun, it has to be done with a certain wit and style. And, uh, no offense, but rats kind of ... lack those qualities. Not that I'm criticizing."
Petra just squinted at the skunk. "You're too pretty for your own good, you know that? Sometimes, I think you get infatuated with yourself."
"Meaning what?" The skunk blinked.
"Meaning you like to hear yourself talk. I'm tryin'," the rat said, sighing, "to calibrate these phase pistols so their beams hold confinement ... you're distracting me."
"Oh." A sheepish look. "Sorry."
"S'okay," the rat whispered. A pause. Fiddling with the pistols. "Where's Mortimer, anyway?"
"He's going to Ops. To work the engineering station ... see if he can mess with their ship any. And to monitor ship's sytems."
The rat, nodding at Seldovia's words, began handing out phase pistols. Giving one to the skunk. "Here. Be careful."
Seldovia just nodded.
"Desmond," Petra said, nodding at the cottontail, who'd just now loped into view. "Take this one."
The cottontail took it. Squinting. "This is an OLD issue."
"They're all old issue."
"Not yours." His tall, slender rabbit-ears twiddled. Twiddle-twiddle. And his cottontail went flicker-flick.
"I'm the tactical officer. I get first pick o' weapons. This is the only new-isssue, an' I get it. Now ... remember that salamanders are real slippery. They move faster than you think. They'll try an rush you, bowl you over, and beat you senseless. But they don't got fangs or claws or nothin', so if they can't take us down with their bodies ... they'll resort to phase weapons. Their weapons are probably more deadly than ours. I doubt theirs are legal."
"Well," said Ninilchik, padding up beside Desmond (and taking the phase pistol that Petra bluntly thrust at him). "Someone needs to cover me. I can't use my quills unless I can body-check them. But I can't do that if they mow me down with weapons-fire before I reach them."
"I can spray from a good distance ... as long as it's not too far. Can't you just curl up into a spiny ball or something? And then roll all around?" Seldovia asked, looking the porcupine over.
"That's hedgehogs."
"Hmm." A pause. Raising a brow. "You don't have a shirt on."
Nin wordlessly turned, displaying the raised, prickly spines on his back.
"Oh."
"Don't worry," Desmond told Seldovia. "I made the same mistake."
"We focusin'? Are we focusin'?" Petra asked, getting a bit frustrated. Her pink, dishy ears perked. And then slid this way and that. "Now, they're gonna be here soon ... they're gonna rush from across there," she said, pointing across the Promenade, "from that docking hatch. Now, Amelie and Wheldon are in the science lab, guarding all that in case the pirates make it that far. But we're not gonna let 'em, okay?"
Nods and mews and such, as everyone listened to Petra give the plan of action. As everyone readied to defend the station. To defend their home. For this place was, after all, their home. Whether or not they truly thought of it as such. This old mining monstrosity had become, to most of them, somewhat appealing. A fondness had settled in.
And they weren't gonna let a random bunch of pirates step in and take the place.
They most definitely were not.
The station shook.
Peregrine gripped the master control island, closing his eyes. Saying a silent, fervent prayer. It didn't matter that the rest of the crew seemed to be treating this attack like business as usual. He, for one, had never battled space pirates. And he didn't really want to.
"They're ... "
Spark!
" ... taking down the first emitter," Mortimer said, moving from the engineering pit at one side of Ops, up to the regular engineering station. He reached his chair, literally falling into a sit, the deck vibrating beneath his foot-paws. His black and gray-ringed tail swished. His masked face furrowing. "Targeting the second."
"Don't we have weapons of our own? Can't we fire back?" Peregrine demanded, his voice high-pitched, airy, and squeaky.
"We have a few phase canons, but ... look, this used to be a mining station. All the extra resources were shunted to structural integrity, not weaponry or defenses. So, look on the bright side: we won't be able to stop them from taking down our shields, but ... even with our shields down, it'd take them a good while to breach our hull. What with all the hull plating and ablative armor. Assuming they wanted to ... "
"Why doesn't that comfort me?" Peregrine asked the raccoon. "I'd prefer 'with shields' to 'without shields'."
"You know, there used to be a time when there was NO such thing as shields. And furs still went out into space ... if they could do it, so can we."
"What are you ... "
Spark-a-shake!
"Second emitter," Mortimer breathed, eyes fixing on his read-outs, "is down. They're heading for the docking ring."
"That was too easy," Peregrine breathed, squinting, watching the pirate ship on the viewer (which followed the ship as it went). "I want to do something about our defenses. Imagine if, like ... two, three, four ships came? We'd be swarmed. Thank goodness it's only one!"
"Peregrine, we really can't do anything without resources, and the Federation ... I mean, the disarray the government's still in," Mortimer said, trailing. A sigh. The mouse was starting to freak out. It was not something the raccoon wanted to see. It didn't exactly inspire confidence or strength in the crew. Mouses were great captains when things were peaceful. They were friendly, gentle, understanding. They promoted a certain sense of artistry and spirituality. But when things turned to blows? Well, when the fighting started, you'd much rather have a snow rabbit, a predator, et cetera. Some-fur who could keep their cool (even if they didn't feel it). Someone who, even if lacking in brazen courage, could successfully fake it. And mouses? They just couldn't fake it. Their anxiety was too obvious.
"Well, the government," the mouse stammered, somewhat incoherently.
"Peregrine, I don't think we're high on any-fur's priority list, okay? We're gonna have to fend for ourselves," Mortimer stated simply. "We've all been doing that for months. I know you're not used to that. I know you're used to having a big net to fall into, but ... out here, there's no net. It's just us. The ten of us on this big station by ourselves. And all that dangerous stuff on the planet. And petty criminals who want to take it. We make do with what we have."
"Well, aren't raccoons resourceful? Can't you make warp engines out of rocks?"
"I think that's stretching it."
"But, still, can't we rig something ... improvise. Anything? We shouldn't be able to be boarded so easily. We have to ... "
" ... Petra says they're entering the docking hatch," Hyacinth said, calmly, from the other side of the room. The cow was so docile. Did anything spook her?
The mouse turned, meeting the cow's gaze. "How many are there?"
"Pirates? She didn't say. She'll be fine. She's defended us before."
But, still, the mouse worried. He wanted to pace. Wanted to twitch all over. His anxiety welled, and he had a hard time clamping down on it. His eyes darted, tail snaking like a downed electrical wire.
And Hyacinth, turning to meet Mortimer's concerned gaze, mouthed, "Here." She held out a hoof-like hand. It was anxiety medication. Petra had left it with the cow to give to Peregrine should he need it. And it definitely looked like he needed it. Still mouthing her words, making no sound, Hyacinth told Mortimer, "His neck."
"I know how to use a hypo," the raccoon mouthed back, taking it. Trying to sneak up behind the mouse. Sneak, sneak, sneak.
But Peregrine's big, dishy ears were too good. He turned, blinking. "What? What are you doing?" He twitched, backing away. Eyes darting. His paws shook with fear. "W-what are you doing ... " His voice wobbled.
Mortimer sighed. He'd had a hostile opinion about Peregrine when first meeting him. But he'd since changed his mind. The mouse was a good fur. A new friend. And he felt terribly sorry for him, that he had to endure such anxiety and such fear. And that he'd endured such loss in his past. So, the raccoon spoke in a gentle tone. Gentle. "Look, you're panicking, okay? Just ... your wife left us a hypo to give you."
"Why didn't she leave it with me?" His eyes were wide.
"Cause she knew you'd convince yourself you didn't need it," Hyacinth answered wisely.
Peregrine just twitched, the fear gnawing, gnawing at him. Making his paws to tremble. He shook his head, trying to object. He wanted to cry. Pirates. They were here. The station was shaking. What if they came and got him? And tortured him? And Petra. His wife was going to fight them. What if she got hurt? What if she died? What if ...
... Mortimer, not waiting for approval, gently padded forward and pressed the hypo to the mouse's neck. A gentle whoosh as the medicine went into his bloodstream. And, stepping back, the raccoon said, "We better monitor our stations. We can feed our crew-furs information from the sensors ... "
" ... alright," whispered Peregrine, feeling a bit odd as the medicine immediately started to work. He hated that he needed the stuff. But it kept him calm. Mouses were notorious for their anxiety problems. And his, right now, were made even worse: because of his painful history. How he'd lost his fiancee. How it had happened on an away mission under his command. How he blamed himself. And not for the first time, he wondered: what if I lose her, too? What if I lose Petra, too? Under my command. My fault.
It's all my fault.
"You okay?" Mortimer asked. Concerned.
Peregrine looked up, blinking, whiskers twitching erratically. And he just nodded, saying nothing. And staring down at the station's internal sensor readout.
Milka brought up the rear of the attack party. Or, rather, she appeared to. At the last possible moment, she slowed, thenheld back, the others all rushing out of the ship's airlock without actually checking to make sure she was still with them. Momentarily free from scrutiny, she backtracked through the ship, hurrying to the brig.
Benji was still in his cell, already standing, waiting. Visibly nervous. His whiskers twitched and his soft, brown fur seemed to stand on edge. The semi-aquatic rodent (somewhat like a beaver and somewhat like a mouse) perked his roundish ears, his webbed paws fiddling. "Milka!" he squeaked, the moment she entered the room. Relief in his tone.
"Alright, we gotta make this quick. Gotta be quick," she said, rushing to the controls, tap-a-tapping. The force-field buzzed and went quiet. "Quick and quiet," she added. She went to him, extending her paw. And, allowing a slightly-daring smile, she asked, "Ready for our grand getaway?"
The nutria could only nod.
"Good. Cause ready or not ... " An otter-chirp as she pulled him along. No one in the ship's hallways, which was good. Everyone was either with the attack party or on the bridge monitoring it (or in engineering, 'holding down the fort'). It only took them a minute to reach the docking hatch. Both of them bursting out of it. Into a soothingly-dim, slightly blue-lit corridor on the station.
Milka, surveying, quickly tugged her husband to the nearest door. It wouldn't open. She tapped at the controls. Nothing. "Dammit," she cursed, growling from the throat. And then pulling him to the next door. Nothing. The next. And this one whooshed open easily, upon sensing them. "Must be a safe room ... since it's not locked."
Benji, nose sniff-twitching, pointed out, "Well, it's totally dark in ... "
She shoved him inside.
A squeak.
"Darling, I don't have time to argue. Ask the computer to turn on the lights. Find someplace to hide. I'll be back," she promised, blurting it quickly, tearing off to re-join the salamanders. If they'd noticed she'd been missing, they'd want to know why. They might actually put two and two together, and ...
" ... holdz it right there."
... the otter almost tumbled as she came to a very sudden stop. Freezing, swallowing, and backing up. Step by step. A weapon trained to her breasts.
"The captain, he sez to me ... Milka, she'z gone wrongz. And I was told to watch you. I beenz watching you very, very closely, Milka." The salamander, one of the pirate ship's many unofficial security officers (everyone on a pirate ship was a 'security officer,' being that all of them used weapons and fought).
"With eyes like yours? I think you'd find that kind of hard," the otter said, not scared enough to hold her tongue. She had been raised by pirates, after all. She had a sense of recklessness about her. The smart thing to do right now would be to shut her muzzle and grovel, or give him something he wanted. But the only thing he'd want (predictably) was between her legs. And she wasn't about to give him a taste of that. She could try and kick him. Take him down. But he'd fire that weapon as soon as she did.
The salamander slick-flicked his tongue, tilting his head. "What'z you gonna do now, mm? Mm?" he prodded, waving his phase pistol a tiny bit. "You so smart," he said, sarcastically.
Think, Milka.
Think!
The otter, leaning back a bit (propping her body up with her sturdy rudder-tail), casually spread her arms. "Well, I was going to commend you on a job well done."
"I'm surez you were."
"Oh, I was. I was. But, uh ... in order to do that? You'd have to have ACTUALLY done a good job."
"And what makez you think I haven't, mm? Mm?"
"Well, there's this," she said, lunging forward, huffing, "for a start ... you ... slimy ... " She brought him to the ground, trying to knock the weapon from his hand. But he was strong. And as strong as she, herself, was (being a rough-and-tumble otter), she was at a distinct physical disadvantage. He was a male. He had a natural edge when it came to sheer muscle. And she was unable to pin him down.
"You will regretz that!" was the moist whisper, pushing, pushing, shoving her off.
She gave an 'oomph' as she rolled away, panting, raising her head. Lying on the carpeted floor of the corridor.
And the salamander raised his weapon ...
... and went flying. As a furry, web-pawed creature went hurtling into him.
"Benji!" Milka chirped.
The nutria, panting, pummeled the salamander with his paws. Benji was fit. A lover of recreational activities of many sorts. Notably swimming, of course. And, panting, he eventually knocked the pirate unconscious. And then took his phase pistol.
Milka gave a huge sigh of relief. "You could've been killed."
"What about you? He was gonna shoot you," Benji said, getting to a stand.
Milka was a few inches taller than him. And padded to him, lowering her muzzle, she whispered, "I thought I told you to stay in that room." Her eyes sparkled as she said this.
And Benji, giving a shy smile, simply replied, "I guess I didn't hear you."
A giggle-chirp, and the otter gave a throaty sound. The nutria was truly a fur after her own heart. He did have a sense of adventure in him. Even if it hadn't been evident at first. She could bring him completely out of his shell, for sure. But it would have to wait until later. Because, right now, "We gotta get to the Promenade."
The fighting had already started there.
Petra, extending her paw and arm, fired her phase pistol. A beam of ruby-red light lancing, lashing out. Hitting a salamander. A hiss and a slump as he went unconscious. And green, electrical beams spitting back at her. She quickly recoiled, twisting aside. Barely missing being fried. Her heart hammered. Though she didn't have a mouse's anxiety problems, she was still a rodent. And to pretend that she didn't feel anxiety on some palpable level would be a lie. She did feel it. It made her paw-pads sweat. But she gritted her teeth and kept firing. And kept seeking cover as they retaliated.
"They're starting to advance," Desmond called. There were twice as many salamanders (eight) as there were furs (four). And they were creeping closer and closer, coming across the Promenade. Trying to reach the side-hall that led over into the science lab.
"How long can every-fur hold their breath?" Petra demanded, grimacing. Firing. Firing again. And then squeaking as she was nearly hit (another close one; were her reflexes getting slower, or were the pirates just that much better than the last time).
"Is that my signal or something?" Seldovia asked.
"Yes," was Petra's chitter. "Fire at will."
"No problem," Seldovia said. "I, uh ... I just gotta position myself. I gotta have my back to them and my tail fully raised. You guys are gonna make sure I'm not shot in the rump, right?"
"Yes," the rat insisted. "Hurry!"
"Alright, alright ... just guard me, please," the skunk said, worry in her voice. The sound of weapons-fire, all the voices, the smoke in the air, the chaos. The confusion and fear and uncertainty. The passion of defending one's territory from a horde of unwanted invaders. Seldovia, squeezing her eyes shut, got into position. Her scent-glands were at her tail-base. And she needn't remove her clothing to release (or 'spray') the scent. Her glands were just free enough to be exposed and to ...
... shrieks from the pirates. The ones closest, anyway.
Seldovia gave an errant grunt and sprayed again. The 'bad skunk smell' couldn't be heard as she released it. But it could definitely be felt: in how it stung the eyes. In how it clogged the airways. She, herself, was immune to the smell. But no one else on the Promenade was. But she'd only sprayed in the direction of the pirates. So her friends only had a fainter whiff. Skunks were well-known for their pheromones: the good ones (the very pleasurable sex pheromones, the most intoxicating natural perfume known to exist) and the bad ones (the defensive 'bad' smell that almost hurt to breathe). The release of either scent was entirely voluntary. But the supply of 'scent' wasn't endless.
Petra, wrinkling her nose, held her pistol steady. The salamanders were staying back. A few had passed out.
Panting, Seldovia mewed, "I'm out! That's all I got ... " It would take a few hours for her scent gland to refill. She still had a full compliment of her sex pheromones, but that didn't do much good right now. She needed her 'bad' scent. And it was out. She crawled away, rolling to cover, putting her back to a wall. "Nin ... Nin, I think you can get to them without them firing at you. They're pretty disoriented."
The porcupine, looking to the skunk said, "If I go into that, I will be, too."
"It's already dissipating," she defended. She didn't like being teased about her pheromones. "Just hold your breath or something. Else they'll regroup ... you gotta quill 'em."
"Do it, Nin," Petra ordered. "Before they collect themselves and get even angrier ... "
The porcupine was already on the move, shuffling into the open, ducking. Approaching a pirate who'd dropped his weapon. Seeing the porcupine, the salamander reached for it (the phase pistol). A mistake. As Nin's club-like tail batted out. SWAP!
A hiss of deep pain.
Nin withdrew his tail, leaving several quills behind. And he shuffled to his right, and then his left, batting his tail all about, hunching over a bit (protecting himself with his quilled back; they wouldn't be able to attack him from behind). His front, his chest and belly and such, were the most vulnerable parts of his body. They were very sensitive areas. He had to make sure he didn't get punched there, or the wind would go right out of him.
A pirate slimy-slid toward him, trying to lash out.
Nin turned just in time. Losing a few more quills.
The 'spiked' salamander backed off, hissing, nursing his throbbing wound. And he made the brutal error of trying to pull the quills out. And screamed. The quills each had microscopic hooks on them. They went into skin easy. And came out hard.
Eventually, Nin retreated. He'd quilled two of them. Two had been taken out by Petra with phase pistol fire. And two had been knocked out with Seldovia's scent. But that still left two more, and they were brandishing their weapons madly, looking as if to make a foolhardy charge.
Until they were stunned from behind, slumping unconscious.
Petra, peeking her head out, said, "Who are you?" It was more a demand than a question.
"I'm a friend," Milka said. To prove it, she tossed her weapon to the carpeted floor, raising her paws. "And so's he," she said, of her companion. A species that Petra wasn't familiar with. "We were forced to stay aboard the pirate's ship, but ... no more. We want asylum. We want to join you."
Petra exchanged a glance with Desmond.
The cottontail gave a bit of a helpless look, his buttery, toffee-furred ears going waggle-waggle. As if to say 'don't ask me.'
"Don't worry, they're all unconscious. My name's Milka, by the way. And this is my husband," she said, proudly. "Benji."
Petra emerged from her place of cover, training her phase pistol on the both of them. "You'll pardon me if I don't take ya at your word. Anyone in the company of pirates is a bit suspicious in my book. We'll have to check you out."
"Well, before you do that," the otter said, with a bit of cheek to her tone, "may I suggest we check these fellows out?" She nodded at the downed salamanders. And looked to Petra, giving a grin. "Hmm?"
So it was that, a half hour later, all the salamanders were locked in their quarters aboard their ship. And the helm set to auto-pilot, with coordinates far, far away. This batch of pirates was going for a long sail. They'd eventually get out of their quarters and take back the computer, of course, but maybe that wouldn't be for a few days. A week. Who knew. Regardless, they would think twice about coming back here. Especially after the wounds they'd endured.
Or would they?
Milka knew that pirates were ones to take revenge.
And this station was still a tempting (and easy) target.
Which is what she was telling Peregrine, in his office overlooking Ops. "You'll need me. I know all the pirate factions in this sector. I know the captains, the methods ... how they work, you know? I know their weaknesses. You're gonna get attacked again. You can be certain of that. If you have me with you? You'll be much stronger for it. I can be valuable to you," she insisted.
The mouse, at a sit (on the couch), looked to her. "You're probably right. But we're a Federation facility. We have ranks. A chain of command. You'd not be running things, you know."
"I'm not asking to."
"But you do have a certain air of ... brashness."
"I've been a pirate for several years. It comes with the territory."
"And you're not a pirate anymore?"
"I've given it up." A cheeky, whisker-brushing smile, her rudder-tail swaying. And her roundish ears perked. The smile faded. And, more seriously, she said, "My husband and I need to ... belong," she whispered, "somewhere. Where we can love and ... make friends, and make a difference, alright? We're both a long way from our homes. We need some time to grow."
"This isn't a hotel."
"I didn't mean to imply that it was." A polite head-nod. And a breath. "But, Commander, if you don't mind me saying?"
The mouse met her gaze.
"You got ten crew-furs. On a station this big. You can use all the paws you can get ... the Federation's obviously abandoned you or something. They're not gonna send you help. Me and my husband? Two, warm-blooded furs, ready and willing to join you. We'll increase your numbers by twenty percent," she said. It always sounded more impressive when you used percentages.
And the mouse, rubbing his eyes, gave a few nods. And then put his paws on the couch-cushions. "Alright," he whispered. "I'm gonna ... alright, you can stay. We'll have to figure out how you'll fit in, but ... I'm not gonna turn you away. I can't do that. I wouldn't want to be turned away if I needed refuge. So, I'm not about to turn you," he repeated, "away. And we do need more furs."
"Thank you," Milka whispered, her gratitude showing in her tone. "Thank you ... "
" ... you're welcome," Peregrine said simply. He looked a bit uneasy.
And the otter squinted, tilting her head. "You alright? Did I say something wrong, or ... "
" ... it's not you." He gave a weak chitter. "Anxiety," was the simple response. A slight, distracted nod. "And I 'peaked' twenty minutes ago, but, uh ... haven't bred yet. My wife's ... "
The doors whooshed open. " ... here. I'm here," Petra panted, looking a bit disheveled. Also past her peak (when furs mated, their 'peaks' tended to synchronize). "The Promenade was, uh ... it was a mess," she explained, apologizing. "I had to get that smell out."
"Did you?" Milka asked, curious.
A nod. "Yeah, it's gone. And, uh ... yeah ... "
Seeing how the two rodents were looking at each other (like starving things), the otter gave a slight nod, a slight smile, and said, "I'll excuse myself. You both look pretty desperate for, uh ... relief." A wink, and a warmer smile. "Thank you again," she said, slipping out the door. Which closed.
"There are windows in that door," the mouse squeaked, needing to breed. So bad, so bad. Needing it!
"Computer," the rat huffed. "Dim windows."
The door-windows tinted to dark.
"Anything else?" the rat asked, hurriedly wriggling out of her clothes. Huffing. Feeling a headache coming on. But that would soon be warded off. Soon, soon, soon. Her senses were all aflame. She felt like a raw nerve.
"Nothing else," the mouse panted, half-naked, writhing with her as they began making out on the couch. Shirts, pants off, underwear thrown aside. The scents of arousal, need. The capacity for love as high as it could go. "Nothing else but the need for you," he whispered poetically, arms around her back. "Mm ... mm ... " Oh, yes, yes, yes. Such love, such tenderness. Such hot, steamy expression. As they sank together, in the fur, into the couch cushions, squeaking their way to union.