Chapter 177 (1/2)
T'Nok was born a warrior caste male. As large as a Terran warborg at just over three meters, his blade arms were thick and highly honed, his gripping hands were strong, and his legs were thick and powerful. Before the P'Thok Liberation he would have undoubtedly been eaten during his first mating, his coloration and physique and intellect making him highly desirable. His cranium was well developed and his school scores put him at the top of his classes. The tattoo on his abdomen from the Bongistan University of Lumbering Meat Beast Ford was a source of pride for him and his sash proclaimed to every female and male who saw him that he was not only a prime physical specimen but his intellect made him highly desirable. The fact that he was a reknown crysteel architect made him wealthy and highly sought after to grow the elaborate living crystal domiciles the higher caste females so preferred. More than a females would see him and clean their bladearms while they stared at him.
Which was why he was glad that birth control and ice cream was a thing. He liked his head.
He had been designing a particularly challenging birthing chamber for a shipping company matron and decided to go out and enjoy a bowl of ice cream, perhaps even a banana split, to relax and sweep load bearing computations from his mind. On the trip in his comfortable travel-disc he loaded his favorite game and spent time arranging coins just right for a virtual Terran monkey to grab as it bounced off of walls and objects. It helped discharge the formula from his datalink implant and reset his nervous system.
The ice cream parlor that he preferred was high end and upscale. The bench seats were made of red dyed animal skins in an arcane process that produced soft but firm red leather. All of the edges of surfaces were made of chrome. Each table had a delightful radio that ensured that those sitting at the booths could listen to old style Treana'ad music as the waitresses, wearing large wigs and elaborate white costumes, would roll around on the skates on all four of their legs. He liked the coloration of the ice cream artist working that day, her skill with carving ice cream floats with her sterilized bladearms made him hum in satisfaction.
The sight of the backdrop, showing a Treana'ad on a long board, balancing with an ice cream cone in one hand and a cigarette on the other, as he used the board to skim along the inside of an ocean wave, reminded him that he was going to go foot-disc or foot-board surfing with some friends next week. He double-checked his implant to make sure the appointment was locked in. His friends had all certified their RSVP's and while he waited for the waitress he made sure to order high quality bonfire wood, special order ice cream, and actual Terran Dark Continent Wonderbeast steaks to cook over the open flame.
The waitress took his order, a rainbow tower of sherbet, left him a complimentary cigarette and book of matches, and skated away, tapping her bladearms together in tune with the jaunty song that was playing.
”Hey, T'Nok,” came a voice.
Crap, it's J'Vik, T'Nok thought to himself. He found the other Treana'ad somewhat boorish, with poor taste in ice-cream and worse taste in poetry that he tried to inflict upon everyone around him. The problem was, like T'Nok, J'Vik was warrior-caste born, which meant that T'Nok had to be at least polite to him in public. Only J'Vik fancied himself a 'warrior poet' and suffered a fundamental misunderstanding of what that actually meant.
T'Nok looked up and saw that J'Vik was wearing a beatnik on his head. One of those flattened hats the humans called berets. Which T'Nok thought was funny, since the phonetic sounds of 'beret' meant 'delicious looking' in his native language.
Only J'Vik would walk around proclaiming that his head looked delicious with his hat, T'Nok mused, managing to keep from laughing by lighting a cigarette.
The other male sat down and T'Nok made a mental bet with himself that the other male would try to stick T'Nok with the tab.
”Did you hear the news? Everyone is talking about it,” J'Vik said, completely unaware of the three barely mature females in the next booth over snickering about his hat and wondering if his head was as delicious as J'Vik was claiming. All three of them had the shiny carapaces of someone who had molted within the last week.
Two of them were wondering if they should lure the 'warrior poet' back to their nests, share him, and then discuss on the satisfaction they got from the taste, consistency, and volume of J'Vik's head.
T'Nok calmed his anxiety over the three females, who would undoubtedly eat a male's head, birth control or no birth control, just because their just matured primal instinct told them too, and enjoy a nice bowl of chocolate fudge cheesecake ripple afterwards.
Barely mature females were dangerous, everyone knew that, but there was always 'That Guy' who thought that his head was armor plated.
All of his life T'Nok had been careful not to be 'That Guy'. He'd known a few.
J'Vik definitely fell in the ”That Guy” category.
”I have been busy with my work. My client is most eager for me to complete my work,” T'Nok said, exhaling smoke through his forward legs.
”Got a smoke?” J'Vik asked.
”Alas, I did not bring a pack along. Perhaps when you order?” T'Nok said.
”Here, I have one,” one of the females said, leaning over the back of the bench and offering a menthol cigarette. ”You can have it,” she said, staring at J'Vik's beatnik.
The other two slowly cleaned their bladearms with their mandibles, their compound eyes sparkling as they watched their friend offer the cigarette.
”Thank you, pretty,” J'Vik said, fluttering his antenna at the female.
She turned around with a titter and rubbing her wings together, looking smugly at her two companions, as J'Vik lit the menthol.
Don't be That Guy, T'Nok thought to himself.
”I'm surprised you didn't hear. It's pretty big news, especially for your caste,” J'Vik said somewhat smugly.
”You are too concerned with castes,” T'Nok said, shaking his head. ”We are free of castes.”
”Mm-hmm,' J'Vik said, making T'Nok want to roll his eyes but his eyes weren't designed in such a way. ”Easy for you to say.”
J'Vik preened for a moment.
Oh, warrior, who has everything he pleases
Cannot I have a bowl that you have not cleaned
For I am but a worker
In this society of ours
J'Vik said. He preened for a moment, ignorant of the giggling of the three females and the flat out laughter from two matrons watching over a clutch of a dozen little hatchlings.
”I wrote that,” J'Vik said.
”You're not worker caste,” T'Nok reminded him.
”Poetry transcends caste,” J'Vik said, smugly cleaning his antenna with his bladearms.
T'Nok tapped his bladearms in a shrug. ”I am not one for poetry,” T'Nok said. Not quite true, he quite enjoyed Hard Core Rigellian Saurian Gangster Rap. He particularly enjoyed the recent poetry-song 'I got yer eggs right here, suckah' by the Big Tail Ganstas.
”You caste often is not,” J'Vik said. ”Still, I would have thought that you would be excited by the news.”
T'Nok gave a sigh. ”What news?”
”The Confederacy voted to go to war this morning,” J'Vik said, excitement in his voice.
T'Nok froze. He had to close his opaque eye-shields for moment as the horror rolled through his mind. History requirements in school had ensured he'd been exposed to plenty of media he would have preferred to avoid.
Only someone like J'Vik would be happy that uncounted sentient beings will kill each other, he thought to himself.
”You're excited, I can tell,” J'Vik said. ”I knew that news would speak to you and excite you.”
”Have you ever been to TerraSol?” T'Nok asked carefully. He signalled one of the waitresses to bring him a pack of smokes, changed his mind, and asked for a powersmoker, a 'vape' as the humans called it along with a swamp-apple flavored cartridge.
J'Vik gripped his hands together in a frown. ”Why? Oh, because the Terrans will undoubtedly be fighting in the war?”
T'Nok had to resist the urge to hold the smaller male down and allow the three females to eat his head.
”I take it you'll be signing up right away?” J'Vik asked.
T'Nok managed not to sigh, turning and thanking the waitress for the power-smoker and tipping her a handful of credits for her ability not to snicker at J'Vik's beatnik.
”Why would I do that? I don't know one end of a power-rifle from the other,” T'Nok said, shrugging again. ”I'm sure the Confederate Military can get along just find without me dropping my rifle and accidentally shooting off my own genitals.”
That made the three girls snicker as they slowly cleaned/sharpened their bladearms, still staring at J'Vik's hat.
”But the Confederacy is going to war,” J'Vik actually sounded confused that T'Nok hadn't jumped up, ran out into the parking lot, and immediately fired off a power-rifle into the air.
”Which is a profession and activity best left to skilled professionals,” T'Nok shrugged. ”The closest I've been to warfare is I watched the episode of The Nitrogen Seven when they robbed the Terran Army base only to discover that they'd just stolen a bunch of Terran pornographic magazines instead of the Commander's secret ice cream recipe, and that series is a Tri-Vid comedy.”
”Well,” J'Vik preened with smugness for a moment. ”I heard they're going to start a draft. I'm sure such a prime specimen of the warrior caste such as yourself will be right at the top of the list.”
T'Nok shook his head. ”A draft is as likely as,” he stopped himself from saying 'You writing decent poetry' and instead got out ”the Digital Omnimessiah appearing in the bathroom to bless the faucets.”
The females giggled to each other.
”It's all the talk on the Net Boards,” J'Vik said.
”I would suggest not spending so much time on the Boards,” T'Nok scoffed. ”Just last week you were telling me that there was going to be a chocolate shortage by now, but here we are and the prices are the same.”
”Peak chocolate is real,” J'Vik said, straightening up, his wings rubbing in anxiety.
”Pfft, you sound like a Precursor,” T'Nok said. ”There is only enough chocolate for me.”
The girls snickered again.
”Well, of course, you wouldn't notice any shortages. Your caste never does,” J'Vik said.
T'Nok took a long pull off of the power-smoker and exhaled through his legs, feeling irritation rise up.
If we were still having castes, I'd tear your bladearms off by now, he thought to himself. No, not my education, not my years of study and hard work even sacrificing social gatherings, but no, it's all my caste, all my coloration and size. It doesn't even matter we're the same caste to you.
”Hmmph, you're feeling annoyed because you know I'm right,” J'Vik said, his antenna flicking with smug assurance.
”You realize you're warrior caste too,” T'Nok pointed out. He didn't point out that J'Vik would have been eaten as a hatchling if the caste system was still in place.
J'Vik might have been warrior caste but his coloration was poor, he was small for a male, and his vestigial wings were off pitch when he rubbed them. Worse than that, his poetry was execrable and he had put off education to create poetry and live off of his parent's wealth.
That made J'Vik sit quietly for a moment. The waitress came by and J'Vik ordered a triple chocolate destructor bomb with double-fudge.
She didn't leave a complimentary cigarette and T'Nok almost busted out laughing.
”When are you signing up for the war?” J'Vik said once both of their ice cream had been delivered. The three barely mature females had ordered half-bowls and were giggled to each other, still eyeing J'Vik's head. J'Vik, of course, started eating his ice cream like it was going to vanish while T'Nok savored his, letting it partially melt and mix properly.
”Never. Me joining the military would be suspected of an enemy plot,” T'Nok answered. ”I would be so incompetent as a warrior they would suspect me to be an enemy agent.”
”I figured you'd be braver,” J'Vik said, pushing his empty bowl away. ”Where's your caste pride?”