Planet B5-2 by Paul Cesarini

Planet B5-2 by Paul Cesarini

1

Taarg drummed his claws against the cockpit seat. He was nervous, fidgety, and pissed off. Well, maybe ‘pissed off’ was too strong a phrase. For someone like him, who had spent a lifetime practicing being calm, being professional, being a role model for others, this was quite out of character. He was certainly peeved, at least. He was peeved that he had to lie to everyone he knew just to get to this sector. He was peeved that the homing beacon he’d been tracking this whole time led him to such a remote, primitive world. He was peeved that he hadn’t eaten in at least eight cycles since he’d overshot that moon and had to recalculate his orbital trajectory. He was peeved that he wasn’t even truly certain this was the correct world, and that he had no real plan for getting back without being subsequently devoured for abandoning his post. He sighed and stepped out from his ship. He could smell the beach. Using his whiplike, emerald tail, he casually flicked some bugs off his robes and got to the task at hand.

He knew the beacon was somewhere close, either by the shoreline or in the woods just beyond. Judging by the signal it was likely a standard agricultural model. Those were typically activated by reconnaissance teams to alert larger forces to resource-significant worlds. He also didn’t know why it had been placed here, or by whom, or why he had followed it for so long. He really should’ve headed back once he had traveled beyond communications range, beyond his ability to actively manage his subterfuge. 

Dreen had given him the coordinates and the frequencies to use. How Dreen knew these was anyone’s guess. Taarg trusted him, though. They had worked together for many cycles on the Ravenosa and even more on the Homonculetta. They were both rising stars in the Druunin administrative class – or so they hoped. 

Taarg walked out near the shoreline, periodically checking readings on his communications bracelet as he trudged toward the beach. He grimaced as sand got caught between the scales of his tail. It was at times like this that he appreciated having spent most of his life aboard the Homonculetta. Somehow, the Palantirs working on it always kept the city-sized cruiser impossibly clean. No sand there, he thought, finally getting a reading and turning toward a wooded area to his left.

The signal strength grew. He stopped and pulled up two holoscreens from his bracelet, then triangulated the beacon’s location. He was close – close enough to sense the end of his long journey. He didn’t know what answers the beacon would bring but he was at the cusp of no longer caring. He would find it, take more readings if necessary, and hopefully have some sort of closure. After that, he could start working on a plan to get back home, back to work, back to the Matriarchy. He would deal with his likely devourment later.

A slight crosswind picked up, triggering all sorts of new scents. As he trudged across the shoreline to the wooded area, he smelled at least three different types of pollen, two warm-blooded species of burrowing creatures, and the very faint scent of inclement weather. Situational awareness, including scent identification, had been part of his training many cycles ago. The other Druunin taught him how to holistically ‘read the room’, no matter where it was or if there was even an actual room at all. This world was indeed alien to him, alien to the sterile environment of the ship, yet not so alien that he wasn’t able to function. He was Druunin, after all. If he and other lowly males could work under the relentlessly unforgiving reality of female rule, he could certainly do so on this uninhabited rock.

And there it was. The beacon, a squat, cylindrical structure about knee-high, sat in a clearing, surrounded by small trees and underbrush. It flashed a repeating, coded signal: the same one he had been following for so long. All around it were piles of debris of some sort: smashed pieces of black, polished wood, mixed in with a series of thin, white, rectangular blocks and a tangle of wires. Scattered around these were tiny, hammer-shaped objects, covered in felt. Off to the side were twisted remnants of curved, yellowed metal, dented and smashed beyond recognition. 

Underneath some of these piles were… beings. Dead. Crushed. At least seven. Taarg peered closely at them, rubbing the scales on his chin. He recognized the species, though he had never encountered a living one before. No one had – not in several spawning generations. These were… Hunins. Yes. Definitely Hunins. 

He and others in the Druunin class had briefly studied this species, as they would any crop. It was many cycles ago in his training, but he remembered they traveled in herds and had very limited life spans. They were small, frail, and tailless, with hides that provided little protection from the elements, or from attack. They also, if he remembered correctly, had some of the best, most nourishing entrails of any species the Matriarchy encountered. He quickly looked around, rummaging and poking at each corpse. No luck. Decay had already set in, even beyond the point where the entrails would be their ripest.

Had he landed on the Hunin home world, he wondered? The Matriarchy designated this a ‘B5’ planet, one well suited for agricultural entrail production and harvesting. Yet, it also carried a ‘- 2’ plan code, meaning it was under strict quarantine, punishable by immediate devourment. Why? Why was a world so rich in resources off-limits for everything – including even casual consumption for divisions en route to other sectors? This planet sat parked on a prime shipping lane, after all. He heard that Hunins had once been a bountiful, sustainable crop for the Matriarchy. They had simply disappeared from the supply chain without any explanation as far as he knew. It made no sense, he thought. Was the Great Plague still active? Was he in danger of infection?

He noticed one of the dead Hunins had been impaled by another wooden device – long and thin, and still largely intact. It, too, was polished black, but encircled with an unfamiliar web of metal levers and buttons. He knelt for a closer look. It had entered via the top of the head and come straight through, protruding out from the lower mandible. Was it a missile or some sort – maybe a primitive spear? No, he thought, not a spear. The angle was wrong for that. It must have come from… above? 

He looked up to the cloudless, sunny sky. His clear, secondary eyelids involuntarily closed, protected him from the glare. He looked around again at the other piles of wreckage. Were these artillery payloads of some sort? Were they dropped directly overhead? If so, for what purpose?

Taarg pried the device from the skull of the Hunin, examined it more closely, then hurled it back down. He had no idea what it was, what its original purpose might have been. He had no idea why he was even here. He was furious at himself. He had gotten carried away, yet again, believing the hype that Dreen had told him so many times, believing he could find his Grandcestor. Believing the rumors. Believing the myths. Instinctively, he knew these were all just conjecture – little more than gossip to pass the time in between crew rotations. He should have been working. He should have been focused on performing his duties at his usual efficiency, to keep the Matriarchy humming along as he and others in his class had always done. He should never have listened to Dreen. Never. Yet, here he was: so many cycles away from his home cruiser, relying on thinly-forged orders while others covered for him, on a planet that had been quarantined since before he was hatched. Why did his path lead here, specifically? He did not know. But he aimed to find out. He checked some readings on his comms bracelet, pulled up two holoscreens, and flipped through various maps of the local terrain.

He heard a sound coming from the brush to his left. He pretended not to notice it, moving nonchalantly closer as he examined the maps. Then in one fluid motion he leapt around and thrust his hand deep into some bushes. He rummaged around until he felt something. A sly grin spread across his face as he pulled out a live Hunin male, feral and decrepit, struggling in vain to free himself from his grip. While Taarg was indeed smaller than the females of his species, he was still much larger than any Hunin. With his free hand, Taarg extended his curved, knife-like foreclaw, intending to slit the Hunin’s stomach vertically – as he had done with countless other species for countless other meals – to separate the entrails from the husk. The Hunin howled in a mixture of agony and fear, his unkempt, bug-ridden hair flinging from side to side as he writhed. 

The wind shifted. Taarg’s nostrils flared as he picked up the scent – not of the Hunin’s dirt, not of its filth, but of its entrails. He hadn’t eaten for far too long in his journey. He relished the thought of having fresh ones and hoped the rumors about their taste were true. However, Taarg was so hungry at that point he would’ve eaten any entrails. Well, maybe not ones from the Crittig Alliance. Those were just awful.

“Put it down, now!” came a voice from behind. Definitely female and, judging by the authority in her voice, definitely Matriarchy. Taarg immediately dropped the man, who scrambled back into the woods. He watched wistfully as his meal ran off.

“Turn around.”

Three females, all significantly larger than he was, and infinitely more terrifying. Like nearly all females of his species, their scales were angular, more pronounced. Their claws and fangs were roughly twice the length of his. Their muscular tails swayed rhythmically, ready to smack him up into the brush. These three were somewhat younger, not yet fully grown. 

Yet, something was off. They carried few weapons beyond spears. Their armor was… largely missing, replaced instead by robes and simple tunics. None of them wore earrings designating rank, which was quite odd, really. 

Target’s muscle memory kicked-in and he immediately bowed. He felt his chances of being devoured were maybe 50-50 at best as he had very clearly made claim on their meal. They saw him do it. There was no explaining his way out of it. He was also trespassing on a quarantine world. Forget about 50-50. He was dead, basically, and he knew it.

“Apologies, my ladies,” he stammered. “I-I meant no offense. I am but a lowly male. I did not realize these were your entrails. My own hunger overrode protocol. I can assure you… it-it will not happen again. As a lowly male, pathetic in my simple ways, I am incapable of higher-order thought. I did not even realize this region was inhabited, and certainly not by any of us. If you would like, I can display my genitals so you can all smirk at their miniscule size.”

“That… won’t be necessary. Did you just call us ‘My Ladies’?” said the largest of the three, pointing her claw at him.

“Well, um, yes,” he said, flinching while still in mid-bow. “It’s just that, I am not able to determine your ranks. Should I have referred to you as ‘Your Exquisiteness’ or ‘Most Exquisiteness’? You all seem a bit… young for that honorific, but I of course defer to you.”

The three females looked at him incredulously, stifling a laugh.

“Um, ‘Most Extreme Exquisiteness’?”

All three females burst out laughing.

Taarg nervously looked from side to side, paused, then rose. “I admit,” he said, rubbing his palm across his forehead, “I am a bit confused. Apologies.” He noticed that each female had a small circle tattoo on their foreheads. They all had carried comms headsets, as well; two on their belts and one around her neck.

The largest of the three stepped forward and raised her hand. Taarg again reflexively flinched. “I am Mi-Xalot. Do not be afraid, friend. You are welcome here.” Not really sure what else to do and just thankful they hadn’t devoured him yet, Taarg nodded. The other guard greeted him. She was shorter, with a thinner tail and sharper scales. She still towered over him.

“My name is Humpty, pronounced with an ‘umpty’,” she said, smiling and bowing slightly. “I’m spunky. I like my oatmeal lumpy.”

“I am Treach,” said the third, rolling her eyes at Humpty.

“Um, okay… I guess,” he said, making a mental note to find out what ‘oatmeal’ was. “I am Druunin Taarg, 3rd Phalanx, on a classified mission from the Matriarchy.”

“We know who you are,” said Mi-Xalot.

“We also know you’re not on a classified mission, and that the Matriarchy doesn’t know you’ve left – yet,” said Humpty, playfully.

Taarg was speechless. He thought he had covered his tracks well every step of the way on his journey, taking great care to mask different legs on his trip with fabricated orders, from nonexistent commanders from obscure divisions that he himself had painstakingly created over several cycles. He was positive no one else knew about this journey. Yet, they clearly did. If three complete strangers knew, who else might?

“What? No. No, I am on a very secretive mission,” he stammered. “Highly sensitive and classified – very, very classified. Extremely. Indeed. Given this, I am of course unable to divulge any…”

“You arrived here because we wanted you to find us,” Mi-Xalot said, cutting him off. “Your handler was Dreen.”

“We love Dreen,” said Humpty. “He’s been with us for several rotations now. He’s managed to shift his entire outlook.”

“So can you,” said Mi-Xalot, nodding.

Every Druunin on the Homonculetta knew and liked Dreen. He was always so personable, so helpful, so inexplicably cheerful despite the environment of that ship – which alternated between dreary and terrifying. It made sense. Dreen was the one who told him more about the Great Plague, about this sector being under quarantine. About his Grandcestor. He knew Taarg would eventually have to find out what happened. He knew. That jolly son of a Fek knew.

“Come with us!” said Humpty, tugging at his arm, pointing over to a small ridgeline in the forest. 

“He doesn’t even know you’re coming. We wanted to surprise him for his spawning day,” said Treach, smiling slyly.

Mi-Xalot turned and headed off. Humpty followed. Taarg wasn’t sure if he should go with them but didn’t have a better idea. He grabbed his pack and followed the still very much imposing females. He was slightly more confident he would not be devoured. 

Not yet, at least.

2

They walked uphill then came to a graveyard of disused equipment, including heavy freight haulers, cargo containers, and harvesting drones. Taarg thought it odd that such useful, valuable devices had seemingly been cast aside. These required regular maintenance. Yet, if properly maintained, they could last indefinitely. He had worked on several harvesters that had been in use for multiple spawning generations. For whatever reasons, these haulers and drones had clearly seen better days and were now steadily being reclaimed by nature. Some of the cargo containers were in similar shape, while others had apparently been repurposed into housing, judging by the males, females, and broodlings entering and exiting them. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dirt. So far, this world left him unimpressed.

They stopped at one such container. It had smaller ones lining the front, each filled with colorful vegetation that served no discernable purpose as far as he could tell. He surmised these were used to ward off insects but couldn’t be sure. 

The cargo container still had a mostly intact loading ramp. However, the door was gone. Treach pulled back a curtain that, judging by the frayed strands and numerous patches, had been printed some time ago.

“Father?” she said.

The container had been repurposed into a workshop, or perhaps a comms center of sorts. Piles of equipment in various stages of repair were strewn across several countertops, each with a series of diagnostic tools nearby. Off to the side, a male sat with his back turned to them. He poured over some holoscreens, flicking away two or three while pulling up another bunch. He moved deliberately, brooding over the reports, periodically pausing to zoom in on sections he could no longer see well enough. He was either ignoring or did not hear her.

“Father?” she said, a little louder.

The male stopped, then slowly turned to face them. He was old, much older than Taarg expected, though Taarg supposed it made sense given that it had been nearly two spawning generations since anyone had seen him. His scales were an ashen color, faded to the point of where no amount of basking sessions would help. It was really him. 

Braask. 

The Lost Druunin. 

Hero of the Great Plague.

“Grandcestor? Grandcestor! Finally!” beamed Taarg. He stepped forward and immediately bowed and lowered his tail obsequiously. “I cannot believe it! I-I have traveled for many cycles to find you,” he gushed. “It was not an easy journey but it was important. I was not even certain you still lived.”

“Happy Spawning Day, Braask,” said Treach, smiling.

“We brought him here just for you! Well, with some help from Dreen,” said Mi-Xalot. She and Humpty bent down and hugged Braask. He tolerated the hug but motioned them to stop fussing over him. He remained still, glancing at the Treach and the others, scratching his chin. He peered at Taarg. “Who… are you, broodling? You act as though you know me.”

“I do know you, though I was barely hatched when we first met!”

Braask was expressionless. “You call me Grandcestor. Why?” He pointed down at him. “I never forget a tail, and I haven’t seen yours before.”

“Grandcestor, please – let me explain. I am the sixth broodling of the third spawning generation of Freen the Mild.”

“Freen?”

“Your brood twin!” he said, nodding emphatically.

“Did you say Freen?”

“Freen! He raised me, up until I was sent to Druunin administrative training. He stayed with me, mentored me, motivated me to pass all my exams. He never doubted my ability, even when I doubted myself. I believe Freen was…”

“I hatched an instant before he did,” said Braask, smiling wryly. “I never let him forget it.”

“Yes! He often spoke of you – quite highly – and how much he missed you. He said you had always been his role model, and that your efficiencies with the supply chain were a marvel. He told us many stories of your pivot tables, and…”

“Tell me, does Freen still live?” asked Braask.

Taarg looked down and clasped his hands. “He does not, Grandcestor.”

Braask scowled. “What happened to him?”

“It was unfortunate. He… corrected Balrek Na Goreth in a public forum.”

“Balrek Na Goreth, the Abominably Large Destroyer of Gith Prime?”

“Regrettably, yes.”

“Oh, crap…” he said, rubbing his temples.

“I’m told she spaced him, right there in front of the command crew of the Stilletta, without so much as a single word spoken. They said she was calm as she did it, as though she was somehow teaching Freen a lesson by executing him.”

“She did the same to my colleague Duurk when I was your age.”

“How do you teach someone a lesson by killing them? He didn’t deserve that.”

Braask put his hand on Taarg’s shoulder. “No one does, young one. No one does. Which is why we’re not part of that madness now, nor will we ever be again. Come with me. We have much to discuss. I’d like you to meet someone. Someone special to me. To all of us.” 

Taarg and the others all nodded in agreement as they left the container and walked down the path. He was so relieved to finally find his Grandcestor – alive and seemingly quite well. Braask actually appeared… relaxed? He tried to think of a word that meant ‘more than merely relaxed’ but had nothing. No lowly male in the Matriarchy could ever truly be relaxed. They all performed their duties, meticulously and without question, yet as lowly males they did so with one eye on their tasks and the other on their lives. Always.

They walked past a small clearing in the woods where several Matriarchy (ex-Matriarchy?) females and males were hard at work. Some stood on the roofs of small basking houses and related structures, repairing or replacing communication relays and adjusting antennae. Others worked at ground level, either watering colorful vegetation or chopping items on large, high top outdoor tables then portioning them into bins. All had circles on their foreheads. All wore headsets. None really noticed him or the others. A few stopped to wave at Braask, who nodded at them.

“Remind me to introduce you to them on our way back, particularly Lauper, Jagger, and Thelonius. They are young but work very hard.” said Braask.

“I mean no offense, but those are somewhat atypical names, aren’t they?”

“If you’ve been immersed in the Matriarchy as long as you’ve been, perhaps.” “Grandcestor?”

“Please, no need for formalities here.”

“Um, okay… Braask?” he said, awkwardly. “One thing I’d really like to know is… WAIT, WHAT – WHAT IS THAT?!” Taarg shouted. He froze, as a familiar yet strange scent ripped through his olfactory senses. His whole body shook palpably, then stiffened. He felt his scales rising. He sensed his pupils dilating as his vision blurred at the periphery and focused on what was dead ahead. Braask and the others froze, too, staring at Taarg like he had two tails.

“Brood cousin?” asked Humpty.

“Are you okay, friend?” asked Treach, approaching him.

Through the haze, Taarg watched as Braask stared at him intently, then saw as he quickly motionied for Treach to grab one of the bins off the nearest table. She did so and positioned it on the ground directly in front of Taarg, who at that point was nearly having a seizure, or a religious experience – perhaps both. Taarg felt Braask grab him by the scruff, thrust him down on his knees, then stick his head deep into the bin, and continue to hold him down there as Taarg feverishly clawed, chewed, and fed. 

On entrails. 

Warm, luxuriously fresh, utterly delicious entrails.

Finally. 

3

Taarg woke seeing nothing but blue sky and fluffy white clouds. He was apparently lying on the ground. He raised one of his hands and saw dirt, dried blood, and flecks of gore stuck between his claws. He propped himself up on one elbow, brushing twigs and small bugs from his robes, and wiped his snout. He looked around. Off to the side, he saw the empty bin, upside down, also covered in dirt and gore. A slight breeze sent leaves whipping in between him and the bin, some catching on the sticky residue.

“Wha – what happened?” he said, to no one in particular.

He noticed Braask and the others sitting near one of the high-top tables. They were talking with a male and female stationed there who wore aprons and held long, thin knives.

“Hello?” he called out.

Braask motioned for him to join them. He did so, slowly and somewhat embarrassed for his lack of decorum, as he attempted to wipe off more of the grime and offal. He didn’t realize just how hungry he had been. His loss of control as the hunger washed over him was immature, if unavoidable given the circumstances.

“You’re awake – good! How do you feel now?” asked Braask. The others smiled knowingly at Taarg, waiting for his response.

“I feel… wonderful. Satiated. Yes. What, what kind of entrails were those? I’ve never tasted anything quite like those before. I’ve heard Hunin entrails were some of the best in the entire sector, but I never realized just how…”

“Those weren’t from the Hunins,” said Treach, shaking her head.

“The Hunins are off-limits for harvesting. Have been our whole lives,” said Humpty.

“But what?”

“The entrails you consumed so ravenously were from their aquatic species,” said Braask.

Confused, Taarg looked at the others then back at Braask. “There are aquatic Hunins? I had no idea. I mean, some species we’ve encountered and subsequently devoured did have aquatic iterations, but aquatic Hunins weren’t in any of the databases…”

“Not aquatic Hunins. They have entire oceans filled with these various… creatures.” said Humpty, puzzled but not complaining.

“These creatures are of course unpalatable to our species. Yet, when we were first marooned we noticed many Hunins catching them. They would devour their flesh but discard the entrails.” said Braask.

“Hunins eat the flesh of other creatures? Ewww…” said Taarg.

“As abhorrent as it sounds, yes. They actually consume flesh – and only the flesh. It’s barbaric. They discard the entrails, if you can believe it.” 

“They discard the entrails?”

“We only came across this accidentally, back when we still harvested Hunins for their entrails. The scent of the aquatic entrails was overpowering.”

“A true miracle, father,” said Treach, nodding.

That was the second time Taarg had heard the word ‘father’ since he landed. It was a truly alien term to him and to anyone in the Matriarchy, of course. He had come across it when studying archives from other species during his Druunin training, and vaguely understood its meaning and contextual use. In the Matriarchy, there were only mothers. Even then, only females had mothers. Lowly males such as himself were simply assigned to different broods at birth and watched over by older, lowly males. Yet, no one in the entire Matriarchy – male or female – had a ‘father’. 

Males were simply donors; they had no relationship with anyone hatched from broods where they played a role, so to speak. Records weren’t even kept of that. Freen watched over Taarg’s brood. He was the closest thing Taarg would ever have known to being a ‘father’. Here, however, things were apparently different. Treach, Mi-Xalot, and Humpty all referred to Braask with this honorific. They appeared to not only tolerate him, but actually obeyed him – a lowly male! This was nothing less than heresy, thought Taarg. He made note of this and put it aside, for now. 

“Once we realized we had such a bountiful harvest – a virtually limitless supply, all to ourselves – we never harvested another Hunin.” said Braask.

“By why not? If they were right there in front of you, like the one I caught and nearly harvested, why wouldn’t you use them, too? It would seemingly require very little effort.”

“We have other uses for them now. Much more important ones. Think of this world as a game preserve of sorts.”

“Other uses? What could possibly be more important than feeding the Matriarchy?” asked Taarg, looking at the females for some sort of clue. They just smirked and nudged him along the way.

“I’ll leave that explanation to my mate. She discovered it first. It is her right to pontificate.” Humpty frowned and shot Braask a look. He glanced back at her, rolled his eyes, and continued. “It is her right to enlighten you, young one,” said Braask. “Did I say ‘pontificate’?” he asked, looking back at her. She smiled, shaking her head.

Taarg and the others soon arrived at a standard Matriarchy harvester ship, oblong, vertical, and immense, nestled among the huge hardwood trees. It was parked low to the ground, flanked by a fairly large settlement of females, males and broodlings. The broodlings, running, yelling, and laughing, appeared to be chasing around a small sphere for some reason. Was this… ‘playing’? Taarg had never actually seen ‘playing’ before but he had heard of it and assumed this was it. He was of course surprised by this, since ‘play’ was not really a thing in the Matriarchy. There was training. There was work. There was sustenance. There was sleep. There was UV basking (which was of course rationed). There was no playing.

What was even more odd was that the female and male broodlings were mixed together, running around as one large, amorphous swarm of activity, laughing and yelling, with various ages involved. No discernable female of rank appeared to be in charge. They ran past him, turned a corner, and were gone. This was yet another very serious breach of protocol. Someone was definitely getting devoured for such an egregious display, but it wouldn’t be him, he thought, shaking his head as he walked by them. 

Braask motioned for them to climb up the ramp and enter the harvester. Large tree branches grew around the side. Structures had been built around it, almost as rudimentary additions of sorts, drawing power from the primary batteries, connectivity from the primary mesh networking nodes lining the sides, and other essential functions. 

Clearly, the ship hadn’t moved in several cycles now. Taarg was amazed it was still upright. He knew the gyroscopic stabilizers and gravitational relays could keep it from tipping over and crushing everyone nearly indefinitely, but it seemed as though ‘nearly’ was getting uncomfortably close. He wondered how long they had all been down on this planet, how much longer they could realistically stay, and exactly what in the world they were doing here.

Braask led them up two levels, past what would have normally been the armory – but was now some sort of broodling care center, complete with hatcheries and incubation areas – and down a dimly-lit corridor. He stopped at a door. Just when Taarg thought Braask was about to use the retinal scanner to open it, he instead fumbled with manual controls.

“Bear with me. This one tends to stick sometimes,” Braask said. Eventually, the doors groaned open. He led them into a darkened room, pressed another manual switch for lights, grimacing when none came on. He mashed down on the button repeatedly, muttering under his breath, until one bank of lights flickered on. “Dearest?” he said, into the darkness. “We have a visitor. I believe you would very much like to meet him.”

Taarg saw the faint outlines of some modest furniture, including a bed, an end table with a large bowl placed on it, and some chairs near a small sitting area. All were serviceable, but noticeably old.

“My Dear? Are you awake?” asked Braask. No response. Taarg looked at Treach and the others, who shrugged and, in turn, looked back at Braask. “Dearest?” asked Braask again, with a slightly embarrassed smile. Soon, Taarg heard movement from the area where the bed was. 

“A moment. Please,” came a muffled female voice from the shadows. It was a voice of strength, of authority, but worn down by time. Taarg saw a massive, clawed hand reach out toward the small table by the bed, tentatively searching for something in the bowl. The scales on the hand were a dull grey and looked brittle. He could hear the claws scraping the inside of the bowl, then saw the hand rise again, holding what appeared to be a pristine set of fangs, likely recently printed. The hand disappeared into the shadows again. Taarg heard the moist sounds of the fangs being fit into an elderly mouth.

“Better,” came the voice again. This time, the hand reappeared, holding a gnarled cane carved from the bone of some gigantic species. The figure slowly stepped into the sunlight. She was huge – easily a full head taller than any of the other females – even though she walked somewhat stooped. She wore frayed, flowing robes, along with necklaces and bracelets carved from wood. As the light hit her face, Taarg could see that one of her eyes was cloudy, and that she wore a corrective lens over the other. While he didn’t know her personally, he knew exactly who she was.

“My Lady Palmetta!” he gasped, immediately prostrating himself, the words flowing from his mouth in barely a whisper, then gradually increasing in both speed and intensity. “Most Extreme Exquisiteness! High Administrator of the Lost Phalanx, daughter of First Speaker Fentana Vinsreich Margolotta, granddaughter of Truly Frightening Fentana Vinsreich Ravenosa! She Who Has Vanished! Victim Zero of the Great Plague! I am unworthy, flaccid and insignificant in your presence…”

“Yes,” she said, wearily. “Enough. Enough of all that.”

“But, how? Why?” Taarg said, looking back and forth at her and the others. “How is it you have all come to be here, living on this distant, quarantined world? How is it you are even alive? The Great Plague wiped out nearly a third of the Matriarchy – starting with the crew of your former ship, the mighty Ravenosa.”

“Plague?” she said, glancing at Braask, who shook his head. “Is that what they call it now?”

“Well, um, yes, of course – everyone knows about the Great Plague. We’ve all been taught about it as broodlings, for numerous spawning cycles.”

“We refer to it as… the Great Awakening,” she said, smiling knowingly. “What else do they say, little Druunin?”

“Well, that-that you all died heroically.”

“‘Heroically’?” scoffed Braask. “How so, exactly?” Palmetta appeared about to say something but Braask put up his hand. Taarg was stunned by the lack of propriety. There were no instances – none, at all – where a lowly male could insist a female remain quiet, let alone one with such status as Palmetta. If Braask had done this back on the Homunculetta, he would have been spaced immediately, or worse.

“I-I mean, you’re all dead. That is, you’re supposed to be dead. You were the ones who finally stopped the plague. Rather than letting it infect the entire Matriarchy, you all sacrificed yourselves to contain it to this region. You cut off all communications, refused any further entrail rations or emergency supplies. You intentionally depressurized the Ravenosa, perishing in the process. You… severed the arm so that the body might still live.”

“Did we now?” said Braask.

“It’s in all the official logs. Everyone knows of your great and terrible sacrifice, so that the Matriarchy could survive.”

“Tell me, little one, is there sound in space?” asked Palmetta. Humpty, Treach, and the others gathered closer.

“W-what?”

“Is there sound in space?”

“Well, no. There isn’t.”

“Exactly. No sound means no one can hear anything, correct?”

“Yes, My Lady… I mean, um, Palmetta.”

“We did not depressurize the Ravenosa.”

“You didn’t? Then who…”

“My mother did. Because we were winning.”

“W-winning? Winning what?”

“We had discovered a relic of the ancient Hunins – something called Mausic. It was airborne, affecting the workings of the inner ear. Mausic did not ‘infect’ us; it changed us. It changed everything about us. We were attempting to take over the ship, deck by deck, to transform the remaining crew, to spread the righteous word of the Mausic.” Palmetta clenched her fist, raising her arm up high as she spoke, then burst into a coughing fit and appeared unsteady. Treach ran over to support her.

“Take over the ship?” asked Taarg, alarmed. “But, but that’s mutiny – unheard of in the entire history of the Matriarchy. Please forgive my candor here but why would you want to do that?”

Braask stepped forward. “We launched simultaneous attacks on the Ravenosa, the Stilletta, and on your ship, the Homonculetta, steadily recruiting more of the crew on each to join our great cause. It was easy, at first. Once they heard the Mausic, they were stunned, incapable of resisting. Soon enough, they no longer wanted to resist – they wanted to join us! Young one, when you’ve got the Mausic, you’ve got a place to go. It rips right through you, shakes the very foundation of your being, forcing you to account for something – something that simply should not be. Yet, it is there! Why, it was Palmetta herself who first held me down all those years ago, jamming the comms set onto my head, forcing me to hear the Mausic for the very first time.”

“It was Basin Street Blues, I believe,” said Palmetta.

“Yes, my love,” said Braask, nodding affectionately to her. “Basin Street Blues. It…changed me, in just a few moments. Almost immediately, I knew what she had been fighting for – what I needed to fight for. I took up arms with her, against the only life I had ever known. I forfeited my career, my status in the Druunin administrative class. I knew I was also forfeiting my very life. I would gladly do so again.”

Palmetta, now somewhat steadier, put her hand on Braask’s shoulder. “We hit wave after wave of the command staff, rerouting comm links to pipe-in Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, Chick Webb, and more,” she said. “I personally coordinated the attack on the other ships, using a mix of jazz, alternating between ragtime, bossa nova, and latin.”

“…and Celtic punk. That one was my idea,” interjected Braask.

“Yes, I forgot about that,” Palmetta said, smiling at Braask. “At one point, we controlled over 80% of the Ravenosa and nearly 30% of the other two. The only resistance came from those who had intentionally donned their EVA suits inside the ship, just so they could seal off comms from within the helmets. They could not hear the Mausic at all and fought back admirably. Thracin Andara the Almighty herself – my top subordinate at the time and someone I had personally mentored and trained for many cycles – led this group against us, in one final effort to reclaim Command & Control. She would have succeeded, too, if not for our ‘Ace’.”

“I’m sorry, what?” asked Taarg.

“Motörhead,” chuckled Braask. “We blasted Ace of Spades on every available speaker throughout the entire ship.”

“I don’t understand. What does that even mean?”

“Early English metal, young one. Fantastic stuff. We cranked it up to 11 tufnels. It made our warriors… invincible!” Braask beamed, clenching his fist. “Andara and the others retreated under the onslaught. They had to. We had them pinned down. One by one, we peeled off their helmets and exposed them to the Mausic. One by one, they came over to our side.”

“That’s when my mother took over,” said Palmetta, rolling her one good eye and throwing up her hands in frustration. “It was her final move, and I never saw it coming.”

“She depressurized the ship?” asked Taarg. “Doing so would have killed everyone not wearing an EVA suit, including you – her only daughter.”

“Exactly. Mother knew it was the only way. I never had her level of cunning. She could think… abstractly, several moves ahead, always. I suspect this was why she rose so quickly in High Council.”

“What happened?”

“We lost half of our converts almost immediately in the vacuum. Those of us who by sheer luck remained in the isolated pressurized areas left had no choice but to retreat. We gathered as many recordings as possible, as quickly as possible, and fled down to the surface in the harvesters.”

“And here we have remained!” said Braask, resolutely.

“After adjusting to our new home, we began sending out reconnaissance missions to recover as much Mausic as possible. We had little information to go on – really just scraps retrieved earlier from Druunin Gaarth, but each recording, each chunk of data, led to another, and another,” she said. “We didn’t know what we were doing or how best to recover more recordings. We certainly didn’t understand their languages. Even now, we’ve deciphered perhaps 5% at most.”

“Wait, languages? The Hunins had more than one language?!”

“We were as surprised as you,” said Braask, shaking his head. “We’ve determined that the Hunins had no less than four distinct languages – perhaps even five – and that most Hunins only knew one of these languages. They couldn’t even understand each other!”

“Five languages? That’s… odd. Why would a single species need more than one language? How did they even survive as long as they did?” asked Taarg, scratching his head.

“If there ever was an answer to that question, it’s lost in time,” replied Braask. “The Hunin civilization – if you could even call it that – was apparently not technologically advanced enough for that. They weren’t even spacefaring. We have some evidence that they managed to land on their own moon a few times, but that’s about it.”

“They could barely reach their own moon?!” he asked, incredulously. “Surely, that doesn’t even count. I mean, it’s right there. You can actually see it with your own eyes. You could take a shuttle to it in no time at all.”

“These were a primitive, savage species, little one,” said Palmetta. “The only good thing they ever produced (aside from their entrails) was Mausic. Why, we’ve even attempted to rekindle their interest in it. Braask has painstakingly replicated numerous ancient devices of Mausic, based on partial schematics we’ve discovered. We have air-dropped shipments of these devices all around the region.”

“Wait, were those the piles of debris I found earlier?”

“Let’s just say we’ve had limited success so far, and that our efforts need some fine-tuning,” said Braask, side-eying Humpty.

“I keep forgetting the Hunins are so fragile…” said Humpty, sheepishly.

“Mausic was their gift to the known worlds – one we intend to evangelize, now that we have the Archive.” said Palmetta.

“Archive? Um, which archive is this?”

“It is not just any archive, little one: it is The Archive!”

Palmetta put her massive arm around Taarg and opened another door off the main chamber. She motioned for the others to follow. They stepped into a huge room likely once used for entrail processing. It had since been converted to a holosuite of sorts, though much of the technology appeared dated and cobbled together out of spare parts from the heavy equipment graveyard he saw earlier. The lights flickered sporadically. He noticed the webbing of insects on certain equipment and controls. Palmetta saw him eying this and quickly brushed them off.

 “There. Much better.” She fired-up the controls, which seemed to only grudgingly comply. A wobbly projection formed around them, gradually getting sharper as the holo-projectors warmed. Reflections from the projected holoscreens danced in Taarg’s eyes. Palmetta turned to face everyone. Braask put his hand on her shoulder. Beaming, she cleared her throat, extended her cane out in a sweeping motion and said “Behold, the Archive of Kha-Veen!”

4

The projection flickered, displaying what appeared to be a cramped Hunin dwelling. It was windowless, messy, and poorly lit. There was an unmade bed on one side and some shabby furniture on the other, with wrappers and other detritus strewn around the floor. The walls were all covered in some sort of cheap-looking laminate meant to resemble the grain of wood and were adorned with various printed images of Hunin women with big hair and little clothing. On a worn table nearby sat a handful of flat, rectangular boxes, stacked in the shape of a tree – complete with a small, cylindrical container on top – along with additional empty cylinders and wrappers nearby. 

Wedged into the corner was a cheap-looking desk and a chair. The desk held an ancient, boxy monitor and a primitive computing device of some sort, with several external data drives and boxes of shiny, reflective discs. A handful of similar media was scattered about it, along with even more wrappers and empty cylinders. A black banner adorned the wall above the electronics, featuring what appeared to be a white Hunin skull with two bones crossed behind it.

The three guards grinned at each other. Humpty elbowed Taarg and pointed proudly at the projection. “Kha-Veen,” she said, knowingly. The others nodded their heads at her and repeated the name.

“Um… yes. Very nice. What, um, what exactly am I looking at here?” 

Palmetta walked around the projection, motioning for Taarg to do the same. “This, little one, is Ground Zero – where it all started. We discovered it by accident, really, when we were on one of our frequent hunts for ancient vinyl. As you can see, it is all in pristine condition – a time capsule of pure, untouched beauty, lying in wait for hundreds of spawning generations. It was all a fluke, really. None of this should even be here, should even exist. We suspect it was due to the Archive being housed underground and buried under mounds of rubble,” she said, motioning to a small staircase leading up to a closed door. 

Additional posters lined the walls leading up to the staircase, including one that had a biohazard symbol on it. “This and the relatively low humidity in this area inadvertently created a tomb-like effect, sealing it off from the elements. You couldn’t even see it from the surface. You could literally walk right over it and not notice, which is likely why it has seemingly never been looted or desecrated. It boggles the mind, does it not?” she said, staring back at Taarg.

“Yes. It certainly does. Um, My Lady…”

“Please – just Palmetta.”

“Right, um… Palmetta. I do not mean to offend, but what exactly is the significance of this place? You mentioned it was an archive of some sort, but an archive of what?

“Why, Mausic, of course! Kha-Veen Jhon Son was an archivist of Mausic, perhaps the greatest one this world had ever seen. We have anecdotal evidence of other Mausic libraries – ones that could well have rivaled his own – but they were all lost to time. If you remember, when the Matriarchy first arrived here, whatever civilizations the Hunins may have had were already long gone. We have no records of what happened. It certainly made harvesting them easier at the time. The Archive of Kha-Veen is, in all likelihood, the last remaining repository of Mausic left. Since the Hunins never evolved enough to become a space-faring species, the Archive is likely unique throughout the entire known universe. This is where we come in.”

Taarg felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Humpty. “As Khavinnites, it is our sworn duty to protect the Archive at all costs, from those who wish to steal its secrets.”

“Or defile it,” said Braask, walking up next to them. The others nodded at him knowingly.

“But who…? How? Why would someone even…?”

“Sshhh, little Druunin,” said Palmetta, in an oddly reassuring tone to Taarg, given her fearsome size and appearance. “You will come to understand, in time.”

“We have spent numerous cycles diving into the infinity of the Archive, which apparently operated on a decentralized, peer-to-peer model. We were even able to partially reconstruct many of the nodes that once connected to it, giving us access to even more genres,” said Braask, pulling up gigantic holoscreens and overlaying them onto the projection of the apartment. “At this point, we have discovered no less than 42 specific genres of Mausic!”

“42?” said Taarg, incredulously.

“It is difficult to even comprehend, I realize. Kha-Veen meticulously cataloged everything, from skate punk to ska, from Bebop to K-Pop to J-Pop to German folk,” said Braask, triumphantly. “One wonders how he had the time to do all this. You would have to live a life of near-total isolation. It was a miracle. Kha-Veen did that for us – for all of us. He was that selfless.”

“From Swedish Reggae to Swahili Gospel to Skwee, and even Vegan Straight Edge!” said Treach, joining him.

“Don’t forget industrial hardcore, kids dance party, experimental techno, Belgian electronic, Spanish metal…” added Humpty.

“Or indie soul, Lapland hip hop, hurdy-gurdy, underground grunge, and south African choral,” added Mi-Xalot. 

“I prefer zydeco, really, and maybe some classic Bollywood, instrumental bluegrass, and…” added Palmetta.

“Just not smooth jazz. We all know you were going there. No one likes smooth jazz,” said Braask, cutting her off and gesturing dismissively. Treach and the others nodded.

“Fine,” said Palmetta, sighing.

“Tell him more of Kha-Veen, Mother,” said Humpty.

“Yes, um, please do.”

“Gladly. Kha-Veen was a humble man. He came from a violent region of the planet, known as Cleaver Land, a place that no doubt served as their main armory and a training ground for their strongest warriors. He himself came from violence. He had once been a warrior. He created banners showing the skulls of his defeated Hunin enemies, likely from his many Cleaver Land battles. He proudly displayed these for all in the Archive to see and enjoy – much as we would do – but gave up that life when he found the Mausic. From that point on, he was changed. He never again espoused violence. Instead, he educated the warriors of Cleaver Land, nourishing their souls with Ray Charles, Def Leppard, and Celine Dion, shifting their outlook and helping them see their world for the vibrant, culturally rich oasis that it once was.

“He came from violence but chose a different path,” said Humpty and the other guards, responsively.

“Kha-Veen was a servant leader in a time of despair. He chose to honor his mother – Hunin males apparently had mothers, you know – to stay close to her and continue living with her and his younger sibling even when he was apparently at an age when most males of his species typically left the nest.”

“He was a servant leader who honored his mother,” said the guards.

“Kha-Veen made a vow of poverty, despite knowing that his greatness and intellect could lead to a life of luxury, for he needed not but the Mausic to sustain him. Through his wisdom, he shifted our expectations and perceptions,” she said, slowly raising her arms to the others.

“He took a vow of poverty,” said the guards, their heads lowered.

“Kha-Veen took a vow of celibacy, despite his charm, his magnetism, and his likely powerful virility, choosing instead a life of quiet contemplation, meticulously cataloging each track, each album, each artist as they came into his Archive. Kha-Veen could’ve mated with any Hunin female he desired, as often as he desired, as evidenced by the vast correspondences we found between him and females he referred to as ‘Kamghurls’. They all fawned over his every communication, no matter how brief, simultaneously in awe of him and yet knowing that they could never mate with him.”

“He took a vow of celibacy,” said the guards, their tales neatly tucked between their legs.

“This he did, all while maintaining the Archive and, eventually, even creating a vast network of outposts where he and his followers could evangelize these truths.”

“Outposts?” Taarg asked. “What outposts?”

“The outposts of Kha-Veen were sacred spaces, as evidenced by his sign for them: a circle. I ask you, what could be a more perfect symbol to show unity, to show infinity, to show wholeness, and completion? All life is a circle with no beginning or end, just continuity – a great circle of life, if you will, that spins right round, baby, right round. Kha-Veen recognized this instinctively. His outposts bear the circle, with his mark inside it: K. He created these outposts as a bold statement that says, ‘Witness unto me, for I have arrived’ so he could spread the word of the Mausic to his Hunin brethren. He also provided sustenance for pilgrims who journeyed to his outposts – food (presumably entrails) and drink to nourish them in their times of need.”

“Is… is that why you each bear the circle on your foreheads?”

“Yes, but without his mark inside it. Only he is worthy enough for that, and perhaps his acolyte, Kyle. Thanks to the selflessness of Kha-Veen, Kyle, too, managed to shift his perspective.”

“‘Kyle’ also begins with that same mark, does it not?” said Taarg.

“It does,” said Palmetta, grinning. “You are beginning to see the patterns emerge, little one. Soon, you will be worthy of the mark, worthy of the Mausic, worthy of the Archive – if you can manage to shift your perspective.”

“That’s at least the third time I’ve heard that phrase since I landed. What does it mean, exactly?”

“It was Kha-Veen’s duty in life, young one,” said Braask, walking up next to him. “Among the relics in his Archive, we inadvertently stumbled upon his very purpose, written there, for all to see. It took us some time to translate, but we poured every available resource into it because we knew – somehow – of its importance.”

“Kha-Veen’s role at his outposts – the Great Circle bearing his mark – was literally Shift Manager,” said Palmetta, reverently. “It was right there on the tag from his tunic,” she said, pointing at the projection to a chair with some sort of fabric slung over it. “He humbly wore it every single time he stepped into his outpost, every single time he fed and aided those in need, every single time he found and stored more Mausic. He managed to shift the mindset of anyone who met him.”

“He certainly shifted mine,” said Treach, nodding.

“This is now our great purpose: with determination, cunning, and perhaps even some luck, we will manage to shift the perceptions of an empire! We will bring the Matriarchy to its knees with the Mausic and then reawaken it in Kha-Veen’s image.”

 This was quite a lot for Taarg to process. He of course marveled at the Archive. It was deceptively simple. Enthralling, really. Deceptively enthralling? Or… just deceptive? What they’ve been through all these cycles, surviving on a primitive world, was admirable – as was their ability to form such an intricate, clandestine network within the Matriarchy itself. Their lives, their values, were now so… different from the Matriarchy. Completely different.

He knew they would all be devoured if their colony was ever discovered. It was just a matter of time, really. If he could find it, so could others. All traces of their heretical existence would be purged. Females and males living as equals. Broodlings playing – not only playing but playing in groups of mixed genders. That whole ‘father’ thing. Conquest, subjugation, and entrail harvesting being somehow unimportant? Lack of any discernible supply chain? How could this be? 

He took a step back, both literally and figuratively. His perspective was, indeed, shifting, but not necessarily in the way Palmetta and the others intended. He was thrilled to find his Grandcestor. He was equally so to learn what happened to the Lost Phalanx. Yet, it was clear that this would not end well for any of them. He pondered whether to merely flee or flee and turn them in. Either way, he would take his Grandcestor with him.

“Come, Druunin Taarg,” said Palmetta, motioning him to another, smaller room. The others followed closely behind. There was barely enough space for all of them to fit. Piles of dilapidated electronic devices filled the room, some Matriarchy, some clearly from the ancient Hunins. The devices were all interconnected through a series of wires, adapters, and holoscreens. Most of it appeared functional, judging by the lights. Some did not. He couldn’t discern the actual purpose of it all.

Behind the piles of electronics was an… examining table of some sort? With restraints?

“Ummm, hold on…” said Taarg, stepping back and turning toward the doorway. As he attempted to turn, he realized Humpty had been standing directly behind him. “Oh, excuse me. I-I didn’t…” She stared blankly at him, not moving. He tried to maneuver around her, but Treach and Mi-Xalot now flanked him on either side, all with that same expression. He knew he could not simply force any of them out of the way, given their comparative size difference. “Wait, um,” Taarg quickly pivoted back around to face the table. Braask and Palmetta stood there, impassively.

“Take him,” said Palmetta.

Treach and Humpty grabbed him by the torso, heaved him up, then thrust him down onto the table. Taarg thrashed his tail wildly. Mi-Xalot quickly fastened the restraints around his arms, legs, and head.

“Wait! What’s – what’s happening?!” Taarg shouted, his eyes darting around from Humpty, to Treach, to Palmetta. “You don’t need to do this! My-my Lady, please! Most Extreme Exquisiteness! Daughter of Fentana Vins…”

“Shush, little one,” said Palmetta, calmly, cutting him off. She looked up at Treach. “Follow the protocol of Bowie: To Be Played at Maximum Volume.” Braask and the others bowed their heads.

“Seriously, mother?!” said Treach. “Does it really need to be at 11 tufnels?”

“Gradually work up to it. He is strong. He can handle it. Start with some klezmer, switch to Zimbabwean jazz – maybe Oliver Mtukudzi – then play something from one of Brittany Spears’ first two albums. Follow that with a few sessions of, I don’t know, maybe Sufi devotional music – Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan should suffice. Mix it up with some Zeppelin, Pink, and Miles Davis.”

Treach nodded, somewhat nervously. “After that?”

“Finish with the Beatles – something from their studio years – and some American new wave. Rotate through the cycle if needed. It shouldn’t take long.”

Taarg struggled under the restraints, squirming and writhing. He could not free himself, and watched in terror as Treach strapped the headset onto him. This particular one was fashioned with a heavy, buckled chin strap. Treach fastened it tightly – perhaps a little too tightly – then looked down at the terrified Druunin and smiled.

“Calm yourself,” she said, putting her hand on his cheek. It was cool to the touch. “Take deep breaths, brood cousin. It will all be over soon.”

“N-no, no! I-I don’t want to. Get me out of this!”, he yelled, frantically looking around the room for any sympathetic face. Everyone wore that same condescending smile. He saw Braask out of the corner of his eye, operating some sort of equipment. Braask was sorting and loading reflective discs into the device, barely paying attention to Taarg. He seemed to even be… humming?

“Grandcestor! Grandcestor, please!! Get me out of this! We can both leave! I’ll, I’ll get us back to the safety of the Matriarchy. I’ll make sure you aren’t devoured! Please!! I came all this way just to find you!”

Braask calmly finished loading the discs, turned, and pressed two buttons on a holoscreen. He held his finger over one more button without pressing it, then looked up at him. “You did find me, Taarg, sixth broodling of the third spawning generation of Freen the Mild. Now, you must find yourself.” 

He pressed the final button. Taarg screamed, his entire body rigid as wave upon wave of sound built and tore through him. He looked up at the ceiling, at the lights, back at Braask, then felt his body sink deep into the cushions. He slowly closed his eyes, swallowed whole by the Mausic.

5

Taarg watered the azaleas slowly, taking care to let it get absorbed by the roots and not just run off the sides. He made that mistake a few cycles ago, felt badly, and had no interest in repeating it. After watering, he would prune. He knew the window for pruning was rapidly closing. He certainly didn’t want to trim any buds that would bloom the next season. 

He put down his watering can for a moment to adjust his headset. This model did, in fact, go to 11 tufnels. Humpty had them specially replicated and had proudly given them to him after his Awakening. He knew he was not ready for 11 – not on a regular basis, at least. He settled on 7, switched playlists, then picked up the watering can and got back to work. His hips and tail swayed as he walked back to the spigot, the sounds of Rock Lobster filling his soul.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Paul Cesarini 2025