“Quiet,” commanded the first officer of the Oxypital. He leaned over the comms system, listening to the scanner. “Hilal!” An expletive of self-recrimination, any swearing on the bridge would typically result in a disciplinary, even for a ranking officer. The bridge went silent in admiration.
“There it is again,” the comms ensign’s voice rose with excitement, “it’s unmistakable.”
The first officer stood up, arching his back, his long, black braid swinging. How could he have failed? How could he have missed it. His mind jumped into a logical cadence. “Diagnostics?”
“Run recently, sir, no issues.”
“It can’t be a mistake,” his braid swung. “Hilal, double hilal! That ship is transporting a Kewtonan girl.” There was no other explanation. He had failed.
“Yes, sir,” the ensign’s voice shook.
“Go,” barked the first officer at the lowest ranking cadet, “Wake the General.”
The cadet ran from the bridge.
#
Heat erupted up Maavi’s chest and she woke, gripping the sheets, in a cold sweat. Nearly seventy-five, she had birthed her last child ten years prior while in conflict with Artisan Minor, along the Western Arm. Her attending midwife had written the manual on labor during armed engagements. Maavi’s youngest showed marked aptitude for tactical engagements, often the case with children born during times of war.
The birth of her last child didn’t diminish her desire to procreate. While the next decade provided hot and sticky at night the approach of her change in season of life hadn’t diminished her sexual desire. Her last two lovers had finally agreed to a polygamous arrangement, to allow them both rest. She stood up, letting the damp bedclothes. An ensign would be in to make her quarters up, soon enough.
“Reflection,” she commanded.
“Reflection,” the computer chimed and a glass mirror appeared on the back of her cabin door.
She admired herself. The seventh decade of life for a Canis Major woman was their prime and General Maavi was no exception. Nearing the apex of her professional career with childbearing behind her, she could fully turn her attention to the next half of her life. She had produced ten fine children, and they in turn had produced dozens of fine warriors, all contributing to the success and benefit of the United Fighting Tribes. One, a granddaughter had even recently wiped her boot on her door lintel; they had spared for hours in the cage, neither succumbing. She could hold her head high.
Time in the fighting cages had sculpted her lean body and now her slight pooch from retirement and middle-age had evaporated. She looked good.
There was a knock at her door. “Open.” The looking glass evaporated and the door recessed upwards revealing a panting cadet. His eyes traveled over her body, widening and he performed an immediate about face.
“Out with it.”
“General,” he panted, “the scanners detect a Kewtonan female on a ship, headed towards Axion…. Gurliff.” The tips of his ears blushed beet red.
General Maavi’s eyes contracted and deep behind the squint, her military mind assessed the situation. “Anything else?”
“A young girl,” the cadet mumbled, turning only slightly to make eye contact.
She began to pace and instinctively touched her collar bone, her mind subconsciously looking for her insignia. She remembered she was naked. The ship navigations were set to return to the Canis system in about four weeks. To turn back for this one girl was not outside of the scope of the mission; perhaps the landing bay captain would prove a worthy opponent.
The cadet shifted from one foot to the other.
“I bet there were a few hilals thrown around.”
The cadet blushed.
Her mind compiled a list of actions, then reordered it. She would have to relay a message back to the United Fighting Tribes. But she would start the chase first. She pulled on her uniform pants and sat to pull on her cushioned compression socks. An old injury from her first forays into Artisan Minor caused her calf cramps during long space trips. But before pulling on her long-sleeve shirt, a boot mark on her otherwise pristine, eggshell doorframe caught her attention. A shiny black smudge. She made a mental note to punch her first officer on the chin the moment she saw him. They could have this out outside the fighting cages. Keeping the troops motivated during long space missions was critical.
She pulled one arm through the shirt and flexed her fist, catching a sigh in her throat. Her first officer would lead his own ship very soon, she would sign the paperwork before they returned home. He was calm under pressure, tactically exacting and a good leader. It would not do to emote in front of the cadet. She flexed her second fist and pulled the shirt over her head. There were so few worthy opponents in life. Her first officer was certainly one of them. She would miss him.
She tucked in her shirt and threaded her belt. The other equal was the landing bay captain, an accomplished pilot. She also happened to be very attractive. Their return home would be delayed. Fighting ships did not have the luxury of bringing companions along for comfort. What happened in space, usually stayed in space. And even with two partners, she was already ready for one more. An equal opponent could prove to be very satisfying in the bedroom as well as the fighting cage.
She leaned forward, slipping her feet into one boot. She tied it, wrapping the excess lace around her ankle. She out the other out to the cadet.
“Take this to the Landing Bay and wipe it all over the doorframe.”
The cadet rushed forward.
“It’s freshly polished,” said Maavi, smiling, her sharp teeth splitting slightly in a smile. “Go to town.”
He hesitated.
“It’s alright, go, I’m on my way to the bridge.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but before rushing down the hall, he turned to her, expectantly, “so we’re going to pursue?”
“Yes.”
She made her way unevenly to the bridge, one foot booted and one foot in its dark compression sock. As she passed through the bridge entrance, she admired the fresh sheen of paint.
“Pursue,” she commanded.