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Abduction Theory Pg 2/2 (Enhanced txt)
Date posted: Apr 2/2013
Page Two of Two
© 2013 Fred Brown
.
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
Story can be dnlded from Page One. Fave that page only.
Standard text version readable on white/dark screens is here: Abduction Theory (Standard txt)
Nota bene: Main account is here:
fwbrown61
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
|
| Page Links: ·1· ·2·
|
=============================================================================
That particular order is a burned-in reflex in every military, anywhere,
anytime. It's supposed to trigger something in the hindbrain. Or equivalent. It did
so here.
There was a chaotic clatter of chairs pushing back, and then milliseconds
later a roomful of stock-stiff uniformed aliens stood at ramrod-attention as
though a multitude of invisible strings had yanked them all instantly to their feet.
Or equivalent.
Including half of the scientists, who had temporarily forgotten that they were
civilians. Muffled snickers came from the scientists still seated. Guess I don't
know my own strength, the XO thought smugly.
"This meeting is now over," the Captain said sternly. "Partly on the grounds
that I can't afford to have all of you put each other into Sickbay all at the same
time. There are too many buttons to push on this ship, the XO and I do not have
enough fingers and toeclaws and tail tips, and I personally refuse to try and grow
more."
It was a joke. The Captain had made a joke. Since everyone was at
attention, there was no laughter. But there were smiles on the inside, which was
what the Captain was aiming for. It would soften the blow she knew she now had
to deliver.
"I'm announcing mission termination," the Captain said quietly. "All
departments and sections begin rigging for hyperlight drive. We're going home. I
want the ship ready to deorbit by 08:00. Through no fault of our own we have
failed to learn what we need to know. Indeed, we may have learned waaay too
much. First Contact with the Terrans must be postponed. Perhaps indefinitely. If
we have to give this one to the diplomats and let them tear their fur out over it, so
be it, and I imagine they'll want to tear our fur out too. So be that as well."
There. It was said. There was nothing more to say.
Of course there was. "Apart from one forgettable lapse of discipline that I'm
sure will never happen again...," the Captain began with a growl.
"You're the best crew I've had the privilege of commanding. Dismissed. To
your duties," she finished in a gruff tone.
And the Captain gave the room a firm, crisp salute that left no doubt about
the esteem she felt for them.
Which is why she's the Captain and I'm the XO, the XO told himself, as he
and all the officers returned the salute with pride. The Captain had struck exactly
the right note.
Officers and scientists began to gather up and hustle out quickly. But it's the
good XO who diplomatically reminds a Captain about things a Captain might, in
the crush of detail, forget about. Or about what others might try to get away
with.
"Ahem-hem. Captain, we still have the Terran on board," the XO whispered.
"You might wish to directly order him sent back. Before the Medical Officer... you
know."
"Hmmm?" the Captain said. "Oh. Yes. The good doctor... um... enjoys his
work, doesn't he? Medical Officer, before you go...?"
This was spoken loudly towards a side door where the furtive MO was but a
few slithers away from slipping out. He growled, but turned and a plethora of
tentacles slithered him back to the Captain and the XO. Nobody had ever figured
out how the acerbic octopod actually moved.
"What, Captain?" the MO said brusquely. "I've got patients waiting."
"One patient in particular: The Terran," the Captain ordered. "Prep him for
return. The XO will direct the abduction team to put him right back where we
found him."
A petulant expression passed over the doctor's face (or rather, the area
where his four eyes were located). "But I've only had this one for a few hours," he
whined. "I haven't finished probing him yet."
The Captain and the XO glanced at each other. The Captain's glance said:
Tell me again, how exactly did we acquire this loony medical fetishist? The XO's
glance said: He didn't know he was one until we got here, he's still a good doctor,
and trust me to keep him from making a complete twit of himself.
Simply amazing how senior officers learn to communicate like that. Saves so
much time.
"Come on, I'll help you bundle up the Terran myself. We'll send him back in
perfect shape, tail and all. No more probing," the XO said soothingly, moving with
the doctor towards the exit.
"No more probing? But there's so much to learn," the MO was still whining.
"Can't we take him with us...?"
Which was thankfully when the door closed, which allowed the Captain to
safely release a huge burst of pent-up--and quite uncharacteristic--giggles into
the now empty conference room, her tail twitching wildly.
Oh dear, but the look of sad, woeful, loss on the doctor...
Priceless, and utterly. The job had its moments. Few though they may be.
The Captain allowed herself a few more chortles, then a final hiccup of a giggle.
Then again, it might well be the last laughter she got in for some time. It
was going to be a long, brutal flight home. Followed by a Board of Inquiry that
might well...
No. The Captain firmly decided not to think about that. The ship had to be
readied, there would be the refueling maneuver at Jupiter, then an astrogation
recalc before they went hyperlight, and oh yes, Engineering was still working on
the spy/surveillance satellite. Could they finish it before they left the system?
Have to rush it....
The mantle of command, and all that it weighed on one's shoulders, started
to drift back down on the Captain. Duty called.
What they never tell you, of course, is that Duty never stops calling.
But the Captain wasn't quite ready to answer. She reached for the controls
at the head of the conference table and flipped a couple of toggles.
The lighting dimmed. The Captain turned around. The conference room was
equipped with one of the ship's few windows. The armoured shutters began to
ratchet open. The Captain stepped forward.
Slowly, the Earth appeared, neatly framed in the window. The ship was in
geosynchronus orbit and heavily cloaked behind shields, but that didn't interfere
with the magnificent view.
The Captain studied the complex blue and green and brown globe. All that
water. All that life. And such a thin coating of vulnerable atmosphere. Wild wisps
of white clouds wrapped the planet in delicate filigrees that belied the true
violence of what those weather systems were doing on the ground. Or over water.
The view was nothing if not mesmerizing. The terminator line that marked
night and day was moving over the largest ocean, nearing the tropical island
where the team had snatched the Terran (that the XO was now hopefully in the
process of returning before dawn came).
It must have left a mark on these Terrans, the Captain decided at last. They
evolved on a planet that's tremendously rich, but on the other paw the planet
frequently tried to murder them. In large numbers.
Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Tidal waves, And earthquakes, volcanoes, droughts,
lightning storms, plagues, forest fires. And countless other types of natural
catastrophe.
So what if that's why these Terrans love weapons so? What if they've just
gotten used to the idea of fighting a whole planet for survival, so much so that
overwhelming odds merely means fight harder, even if you know you'll lose?
What if, underneath all their civilization, these Terrans had somehow picked
up the unconscious idea that the Earth itself is their enemy, to be defeated?
Now: What if they decide that we're the enemy...?
The Captain shivered.
"Just too many what-ifs," the Captain whispered to herself, and turned away
from the window. The Captain's tail flicked at the controls to close the shutters, then
she strode silently out of the room, turned left, and headed for the Bridge and duty.
***
Lying on his side in the beach sand, the middle-aged wolf fur came slowly
awake, his tail twitching. He wore nothing but a pair of boxer-style swim trunks.
He opened his eyes to meet the morning sunrise, then gasped sharply. There
were two reasons for that.
First, a set of trimly-manicured toeclaws had just poked him under his
ribcage. Not hard, but a little harder than the owner of the footpaw had intended.
That completed the job of waking up but also caused a brief battle with oxygen
deprivation.
The main reason for the gasp, though, was due to who owned said toeclaws.
And how she was shaped. And more specifically what the young pretty bunny fur
was wearing on how she was shaped.
"Wuffle," the wolf wheezed. He managed to haul himself up on one elbow
and looked around.
Their luxury seaside cabana was only a few meters away in the tree line,
shrouded by a grove of the ubiquitous palms. The twin towers of the enormous
resort hotel loomed high further on down the pristine white beach. The impossibly
blue ocean lapped at the sand.
Since none of this was out of the ordinary, it was instantly forgotten in
favour of staring at her.
Lovely ears up alertly, the beautiful bunny had placed herself in the light of
the sunrise. Her tawny red hair glowed like something inked by Frazetta, as did
her sleek tan fur. It was her bathing suit, however, that really fused the eyeballs.
What there was of it.
Some female swimwear creates an illusion of nudity far more powerful than
nudity itself. Two gold strands looped around her neck to attach to a pair of
improbably small, diamond-shaped blips of sparkly red fabric. Said blips were
perched in a strategic manner atop a pair of truly gorgeous breasts. Bunny fur,
after all.
From there, the two strands continued down past her navel to join at
another small fragment of red that somehow met the legal requirement for
coverage of everything bunny that required covering.
Not seen from this viewpoint, but a final gold strand went under, then
travelled to the ring around the tail and straight up her back to the nape of her
neck. This created an unusually potent G-string effect, the single back strand tied
with the original two in a tricky knot that kept it all from blowing away in a mild
breeze.
Which event seemed both likely and imminent, thus adding to the
enticement of the bathing suit. Although given the surface area of Lycra involved,
the words 'bathing suit' failed woefully to, er, suit.
The fiendishly clever minimalist topology of the whole arrangement effectively
left her hips clear of any material or strands. That was why the illusion worked so
well. More than anything else, male eyes are programmed to follow the curve and
flow of female thighs to hips to waist. All of which was bare.
As such the message from the Eyes-Part-Of-Male-Brain was: She's nude. But
the message from the Rest-Of-Male-Brain-That-Knows-Better was: No she's not.
This delightful little mental dissonance is why some males at the beach walk into
telephone poles or trip over dogs and small children.
"Honey, are you all right?" she asked, concerned.
Or have a hard time breathing. Hence a couple of coughs. "Just restarting
the lupine lungs," he gurgled. "Next time you do the toe thing, don't do it, okay?"
"Sorry. What do you think of my new bathing suit? There's a great shop in
town. I went while you were on the panel yesterday. There seems to be an
unofficial competition developing to see who can get away with wearing the
leastest and the hottest."
She gave a pirouette sort of turn in the sand, and yes, it did work well with
the cute tail, didn't it? Not that anybody spent that much time looking at the tail.
As said, a bunny fur.
A competition. Right. Perhaps that should come as no surprise given the
climate, the people, and the vein of creative exhibitionism these shindigs always
seemed to tap. Although that was usually confined to the evening of the costume
ball.
She looked amazing. He got to his footpaws and dusted himself off, plus an
especially vigorous flick of the tail. "I think you're deliberately trying to make me
late for the guest of honor beach breakfast," he growled, and grabbed her
aggressively around the waist, claws in use. "Which is what making love to you
for the next three hours would do. Funny how that idea just occurred to me, isn't
it? That's the most ferociously sexy thing I've ever seen you wear. Or almost
wear. If you sneeze..."
She smiled wickedly and kissed him on the nose. Then licked it. "Yeah. Isn't
it fun? I'm going to wear it all day. I love this place. Hawaii has got to be the best
place on Earth to hold a con. But where'd you go last night? Somehow I lost you
at one of the room parties."
"I... guess I just didn't make it back to the cabana," he said slowly. "But I
don't remember drinking any great amount. Never overdo it at a con, that's my
rule. Last thing I remember was leaving the writers party, then walking back
alone on the path from the hotel."
"Well, no harm done," she shrugged. "Although if you're going to sleep on
the beach, you are allowed to bring your bunny wife with you, you know. More
fun that way."
He laughed, and threw a paw over her shoulders. "Deal," he chuckled. "Now
let's find that breakfast. For some reason I'm incredibly hungry."
"Had a really weird dream last night too," the science fiction writer added, as
they padded through the warm sand towards the hotel.
April 2/13
=============================================================================
<<< First Page
Date posted: Apr 2/2013
Page Two of Two
© 2013 Fred Brown
.
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
Story can be dnlded from Page One. Fave that page only.
Standard text version readable on white/dark screens is here: Abduction Theory (Standard txt)
Nota bene: Main account is here:
fwbrown61............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
|
| Page Links: ·1· ·2·
|
=============================================================================
That particular order is a burned-in reflex in every military, anywhere,
anytime. It's supposed to trigger something in the hindbrain. Or equivalent. It did
so here.
There was a chaotic clatter of chairs pushing back, and then milliseconds
later a roomful of stock-stiff uniformed aliens stood at ramrod-attention as
though a multitude of invisible strings had yanked them all instantly to their feet.
Or equivalent.
Including half of the scientists, who had temporarily forgotten that they were
civilians. Muffled snickers came from the scientists still seated. Guess I don't
know my own strength, the XO thought smugly.
"This meeting is now over," the Captain said sternly. "Partly on the grounds
that I can't afford to have all of you put each other into Sickbay all at the same
time. There are too many buttons to push on this ship, the XO and I do not have
enough fingers and toeclaws and tail tips, and I personally refuse to try and grow
more."
It was a joke. The Captain had made a joke. Since everyone was at
attention, there was no laughter. But there were smiles on the inside, which was
what the Captain was aiming for. It would soften the blow she knew she now had
to deliver.
"I'm announcing mission termination," the Captain said quietly. "All
departments and sections begin rigging for hyperlight drive. We're going home. I
want the ship ready to deorbit by 08:00. Through no fault of our own we have
failed to learn what we need to know. Indeed, we may have learned waaay too
much. First Contact with the Terrans must be postponed. Perhaps indefinitely. If
we have to give this one to the diplomats and let them tear their fur out over it, so
be it, and I imagine they'll want to tear our fur out too. So be that as well."
There. It was said. There was nothing more to say.
Of course there was. "Apart from one forgettable lapse of discipline that I'm
sure will never happen again...," the Captain began with a growl.
"You're the best crew I've had the privilege of commanding. Dismissed. To
your duties," she finished in a gruff tone.
And the Captain gave the room a firm, crisp salute that left no doubt about
the esteem she felt for them.
Which is why she's the Captain and I'm the XO, the XO told himself, as he
and all the officers returned the salute with pride. The Captain had struck exactly
the right note.
Officers and scientists began to gather up and hustle out quickly. But it's the
good XO who diplomatically reminds a Captain about things a Captain might, in
the crush of detail, forget about. Or about what others might try to get away
with.
"Ahem-hem. Captain, we still have the Terran on board," the XO whispered.
"You might wish to directly order him sent back. Before the Medical Officer... you
know."
"Hmmm?" the Captain said. "Oh. Yes. The good doctor... um... enjoys his
work, doesn't he? Medical Officer, before you go...?"
This was spoken loudly towards a side door where the furtive MO was but a
few slithers away from slipping out. He growled, but turned and a plethora of
tentacles slithered him back to the Captain and the XO. Nobody had ever figured
out how the acerbic octopod actually moved.
"What, Captain?" the MO said brusquely. "I've got patients waiting."
"One patient in particular: The Terran," the Captain ordered. "Prep him for
return. The XO will direct the abduction team to put him right back where we
found him."
A petulant expression passed over the doctor's face (or rather, the area
where his four eyes were located). "But I've only had this one for a few hours," he
whined. "I haven't finished probing him yet."
The Captain and the XO glanced at each other. The Captain's glance said:
Tell me again, how exactly did we acquire this loony medical fetishist? The XO's
glance said: He didn't know he was one until we got here, he's still a good doctor,
and trust me to keep him from making a complete twit of himself.
Simply amazing how senior officers learn to communicate like that. Saves so
much time.
"Come on, I'll help you bundle up the Terran myself. We'll send him back in
perfect shape, tail and all. No more probing," the XO said soothingly, moving with
the doctor towards the exit.
"No more probing? But there's so much to learn," the MO was still whining.
"Can't we take him with us...?"
Which was thankfully when the door closed, which allowed the Captain to
safely release a huge burst of pent-up--and quite uncharacteristic--giggles into
the now empty conference room, her tail twitching wildly.
Oh dear, but the look of sad, woeful, loss on the doctor...
Priceless, and utterly. The job had its moments. Few though they may be.
The Captain allowed herself a few more chortles, then a final hiccup of a giggle.
Then again, it might well be the last laughter she got in for some time. It
was going to be a long, brutal flight home. Followed by a Board of Inquiry that
might well...
No. The Captain firmly decided not to think about that. The ship had to be
readied, there would be the refueling maneuver at Jupiter, then an astrogation
recalc before they went hyperlight, and oh yes, Engineering was still working on
the spy/surveillance satellite. Could they finish it before they left the system?
Have to rush it....
The mantle of command, and all that it weighed on one's shoulders, started
to drift back down on the Captain. Duty called.
What they never tell you, of course, is that Duty never stops calling.
But the Captain wasn't quite ready to answer. She reached for the controls
at the head of the conference table and flipped a couple of toggles.
The lighting dimmed. The Captain turned around. The conference room was
equipped with one of the ship's few windows. The armoured shutters began to
ratchet open. The Captain stepped forward.
Slowly, the Earth appeared, neatly framed in the window. The ship was in
geosynchronus orbit and heavily cloaked behind shields, but that didn't interfere
with the magnificent view.
The Captain studied the complex blue and green and brown globe. All that
water. All that life. And such a thin coating of vulnerable atmosphere. Wild wisps
of white clouds wrapped the planet in delicate filigrees that belied the true
violence of what those weather systems were doing on the ground. Or over water.
The view was nothing if not mesmerizing. The terminator line that marked
night and day was moving over the largest ocean, nearing the tropical island
where the team had snatched the Terran (that the XO was now hopefully in the
process of returning before dawn came).
It must have left a mark on these Terrans, the Captain decided at last. They
evolved on a planet that's tremendously rich, but on the other paw the planet
frequently tried to murder them. In large numbers.
Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Tidal waves, And earthquakes, volcanoes, droughts,
lightning storms, plagues, forest fires. And countless other types of natural
catastrophe.
So what if that's why these Terrans love weapons so? What if they've just
gotten used to the idea of fighting a whole planet for survival, so much so that
overwhelming odds merely means fight harder, even if you know you'll lose?
What if, underneath all their civilization, these Terrans had somehow picked
up the unconscious idea that the Earth itself is their enemy, to be defeated?
Now: What if they decide that we're the enemy...?
The Captain shivered.
"Just too many what-ifs," the Captain whispered to herself, and turned away
from the window. The Captain's tail flicked at the controls to close the shutters, then
she strode silently out of the room, turned left, and headed for the Bridge and duty.
***
Lying on his side in the beach sand, the middle-aged wolf fur came slowly
awake, his tail twitching. He wore nothing but a pair of boxer-style swim trunks.
He opened his eyes to meet the morning sunrise, then gasped sharply. There
were two reasons for that.
First, a set of trimly-manicured toeclaws had just poked him under his
ribcage. Not hard, but a little harder than the owner of the footpaw had intended.
That completed the job of waking up but also caused a brief battle with oxygen
deprivation.
The main reason for the gasp, though, was due to who owned said toeclaws.
And how she was shaped. And more specifically what the young pretty bunny fur
was wearing on how she was shaped.
"Wuffle," the wolf wheezed. He managed to haul himself up on one elbow
and looked around.
Their luxury seaside cabana was only a few meters away in the tree line,
shrouded by a grove of the ubiquitous palms. The twin towers of the enormous
resort hotel loomed high further on down the pristine white beach. The impossibly
blue ocean lapped at the sand.
Since none of this was out of the ordinary, it was instantly forgotten in
favour of staring at her.
Lovely ears up alertly, the beautiful bunny had placed herself in the light of
the sunrise. Her tawny red hair glowed like something inked by Frazetta, as did
her sleek tan fur. It was her bathing suit, however, that really fused the eyeballs.
What there was of it.
Some female swimwear creates an illusion of nudity far more powerful than
nudity itself. Two gold strands looped around her neck to attach to a pair of
improbably small, diamond-shaped blips of sparkly red fabric. Said blips were
perched in a strategic manner atop a pair of truly gorgeous breasts. Bunny fur,
after all.
From there, the two strands continued down past her navel to join at
another small fragment of red that somehow met the legal requirement for
coverage of everything bunny that required covering.
Not seen from this viewpoint, but a final gold strand went under, then
travelled to the ring around the tail and straight up her back to the nape of her
neck. This created an unusually potent G-string effect, the single back strand tied
with the original two in a tricky knot that kept it all from blowing away in a mild
breeze.
Which event seemed both likely and imminent, thus adding to the
enticement of the bathing suit. Although given the surface area of Lycra involved,
the words 'bathing suit' failed woefully to, er, suit.
The fiendishly clever minimalist topology of the whole arrangement effectively
left her hips clear of any material or strands. That was why the illusion worked so
well. More than anything else, male eyes are programmed to follow the curve and
flow of female thighs to hips to waist. All of which was bare.
As such the message from the Eyes-Part-Of-Male-Brain was: She's nude. But
the message from the Rest-Of-Male-Brain-That-Knows-Better was: No she's not.
This delightful little mental dissonance is why some males at the beach walk into
telephone poles or trip over dogs and small children.
"Honey, are you all right?" she asked, concerned.
Or have a hard time breathing. Hence a couple of coughs. "Just restarting
the lupine lungs," he gurgled. "Next time you do the toe thing, don't do it, okay?"
"Sorry. What do you think of my new bathing suit? There's a great shop in
town. I went while you were on the panel yesterday. There seems to be an
unofficial competition developing to see who can get away with wearing the
leastest and the hottest."
She gave a pirouette sort of turn in the sand, and yes, it did work well with
the cute tail, didn't it? Not that anybody spent that much time looking at the tail.
As said, a bunny fur.
A competition. Right. Perhaps that should come as no surprise given the
climate, the people, and the vein of creative exhibitionism these shindigs always
seemed to tap. Although that was usually confined to the evening of the costume
ball.
She looked amazing. He got to his footpaws and dusted himself off, plus an
especially vigorous flick of the tail. "I think you're deliberately trying to make me
late for the guest of honor beach breakfast," he growled, and grabbed her
aggressively around the waist, claws in use. "Which is what making love to you
for the next three hours would do. Funny how that idea just occurred to me, isn't
it? That's the most ferociously sexy thing I've ever seen you wear. Or almost
wear. If you sneeze..."
She smiled wickedly and kissed him on the nose. Then licked it. "Yeah. Isn't
it fun? I'm going to wear it all day. I love this place. Hawaii has got to be the best
place on Earth to hold a con. But where'd you go last night? Somehow I lost you
at one of the room parties."
"I... guess I just didn't make it back to the cabana," he said slowly. "But I
don't remember drinking any great amount. Never overdo it at a con, that's my
rule. Last thing I remember was leaving the writers party, then walking back
alone on the path from the hotel."
"Well, no harm done," she shrugged. "Although if you're going to sleep on
the beach, you are allowed to bring your bunny wife with you, you know. More
fun that way."
He laughed, and threw a paw over her shoulders. "Deal," he chuckled. "Now
let's find that breakfast. For some reason I'm incredibly hungry."
"Had a really weird dream last night too," the science fiction writer added, as
they padded through the warm sand towards the hotel.
April 2/13
=============================================================================
<<< First Page
Category All / All
Species Wolf
Size 260 x 260px
File Size 8.7 kB
TY right back at ya. Gotta love short stories that threaten to explode into novels. This
is *definitely* one of them.
Several thoughts in mind for further work (and I'm almost certain there'll be some). Could connect
with the scenario I laid out in The Big Bird Santa Claus. As in, that's the follow-on
mission, with the diplomats in charge. Where are the Captain and the XO? And do they meet
the wolf SF writer and his hawt bunny wife again? Hmmm.
Then again. I've set up an SF con in Hawaii (Or is it a furcon? With real furs?). The aliens are all
generally furry types. Presuming they just barely figure out their mistake--and don't
leave--what will they do next?
Big hmmm... :- )
(We'll see what I can do. Stay tuned.)
FB.
●●●●●●●●●●
The FA Writers Directory v1.0
is *definitely* one of them.
Several thoughts in mind for further work (and I'm almost certain there'll be some). Could connect
with the scenario I laid out in The Big Bird Santa Claus. As in, that's the follow-on
mission, with the diplomats in charge. Where are the Captain and the XO? And do they meet
the wolf SF writer and his hawt bunny wife again? Hmmm.
Then again. I've set up an SF con in Hawaii (Or is it a furcon? With real furs?). The aliens are all
generally furry types. Presuming they just barely figure out their mistake--and don't
leave--what will they do next?
Big hmmm... :- )
(We'll see what I can do. Stay tuned.)
FB.
●●●●●●●●●●
The FA Writers Directory v1.0
Color me whomping proud of this one; gotta be one of the funniest things I've ever writted. Just schmecks
so well from an SF PoV and from a furry PoV. Best Closing Line ever.
Novel-sized sequel is in progress--dunno how I could stop myself--and also humour-heavy, wherein the aliens
do in fact [barely] figure it out. In an offstage way or that'd eat up a whole chapter.
For sure, the Captain's tail and the XO's ears *will* <Poing!> when Office Foanix [the first avian character]
works out the truth, then tells them the news. The physics about that solar-based laser are flat-out silly. And
oh BTW, this SF writer chap called Larry Niven--not a weapons technologist--has his name stapled all over
the idea, once Ship Comp drilled down into the data to find his name.
Insert very loud <Squawks!> of outrage here. :- )
But wait: Despite nearly slipping on a huuuge banana peel, the Captain and her crew still got a First
Contact mission to do. It just got harder. These Terrans, furry or otherwise, miiight not be quite what
they seem to be on face value. Or at least sure as hell not what these aliens thought they were.
And our setting is a [largely furry] SF con, is it? And there's no such thing as an ugly fur; tend to be
on the rather sexy side, actually. Would this iinclude our Wolf Fur Writer and his [exhibitionistic]
Bunny Fur Wife? Ayuh.
(Would love to give
dustmeat a commish, tell her to pull out all the erotic stops, and do justice to
Bunny Wife. Rowr.)
That said, the Captain would very *very* much like to go down and talk to Wolf Fur Writer, to try and make
some sense outta things [that he inadvertently scrambled]. Can the mission be salvaged? The Captain is
gonna try.
Oh, and the fact that most of these aliens look kinda fur-like: That'll help me in my work. Most SF cons,
there's lotsa folks running around in tres interesting costumes (Furcons too, I suppose). Nothing like hiding
in plain sight., heh heh.
Mmmm yah, think I can see the plot for this novel coming a mile away, Gonna be more fun than well-armed
tiger kits were meant to have.
fwbrown61
PS: I sneaked a spoiler of a pun into that last para. Shouldn't
be too hard to spot. Oopsie, did it again. :- )
so well from an SF PoV and from a furry PoV. Best Closing Line ever.
Novel-sized sequel is in progress--dunno how I could stop myself--and also humour-heavy, wherein the aliens
do in fact [barely] figure it out. In an offstage way or that'd eat up a whole chapter.
For sure, the Captain's tail and the XO's ears *will* <Poing!> when Office Foanix [the first avian character]
works out the truth, then tells them the news. The physics about that solar-based laser are flat-out silly. And
oh BTW, this SF writer chap called Larry Niven--not a weapons technologist--has his name stapled all over
the idea, once Ship Comp drilled down into the data to find his name.
Insert very loud <Squawks!> of outrage here. :- )
But wait: Despite nearly slipping on a huuuge banana peel, the Captain and her crew still got a First
Contact mission to do. It just got harder. These Terrans, furry or otherwise, miiight not be quite what
they seem to be on face value. Or at least sure as hell not what these aliens thought they were.
And our setting is a [largely furry] SF con, is it? And there's no such thing as an ugly fur; tend to be
on the rather sexy side, actually. Would this iinclude our Wolf Fur Writer and his [exhibitionistic]
Bunny Fur Wife? Ayuh.
(Would love to give
dustmeat a commish, tell her to pull out all the erotic stops, and do justice toBunny Wife. Rowr.)
That said, the Captain would very *very* much like to go down and talk to Wolf Fur Writer, to try and make
some sense outta things [that he inadvertently scrambled]. Can the mission be salvaged? The Captain is
gonna try.
Oh, and the fact that most of these aliens look kinda fur-like: That'll help me in my work. Most SF cons,
there's lotsa folks running around in tres interesting costumes (Furcons too, I suppose). Nothing like hiding
in plain sight., heh heh.
Mmmm yah, think I can see the plot for this novel coming a mile away, Gonna be more fun than well-armed
tiger kits were meant to have.
fwbrown61PS: I sneaked a spoiler of a pun into that last para. Shouldn't
be too hard to spot. Oopsie, did it again. :- )
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